


An Age of Silver

by ImpishTubist



Series: Until the Night is Gone [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Case-Related Homicide/Violence, Fluff, Future Fic, Language, Ongoing case dealing with rape/non-con (non-graphic), Retirement, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 117,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is adapting to the pace of a more sedate life when a series of gruesome murders pulls him out of semi-retirement. Meanwhile, a burgeoning relationship with one of Scotland Yard’s own forces him to confront ghosts he thought he had buried long ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** Canon_Is_Relative
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I don't own them. 
> 
> This is a retirement/case fic that can stand on its own, though having read its predecessors would help. It is the fourth and final installment of the "Until the Night is Gone" series.
> 
> Stanley Hopkins is a character from ACD canon; I make no claim to him. I do, however, lay claim to this vision of 2027, and to the invented bits of technology that go along with that.
> 
> The warnings above cover the entire story; there will be no surprises. I deliberately kept some of them vague to avoid spoilers, so if you have any concerns about the actual content, PM me and I can go into greater detail with you about what to expect. 
> 
> Finally, many thanks must be extended to Canon for her help with this fic. The fact that I'm now able to post this story is all thanks to Canon and her meticulous beta-ing. Thank you for your help, friend. It's much appreciated.
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> 

Sherlock Holmes had never been fond of dogs.

He didn’t despise them, but he also didn’t go out of his way to become acquainted with them. He found them to be useless, pedantic creatures who were far from clever and had a streak of loyalty that would have been appealing if it hadn’t also been so completely blind.

It had never been clear to him, then, why dogs seemed to enjoy keeping his company. But not only did they actively seek him out, they also always became alarmingly attached to him.

Which was why, at five in the morning, he was being licked awake by his landlady’s lab puppy.

“Oh, for the love of Christ,” Sherlock muttered, burying his head under his pillow in order to stave off the puppy’s attacks.  “ _Checkers.”_

At the sound of his name, the golden-haired puppy yelped and shoved his cold nose against the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“You are obscenely lucky,” Sherlock grumbled, throwing back the blankets and getting up, “that I have no wish to alienate Miss Hudson. Come on. Down.”

The puppy leaped off the bed and scampered out into the kitchen while Sherlock slid into his dressing gown and followed at a more sedate pace. 

The kitchen lights, triggered by his movements, snapped on the moment Sherlock entered that room. The computer interface on the wall then blinked to life, as it did every morning when it detected that the flat’s sole occupant had woken for the day.

_ Good morning,  _ it chirped as an image of pre-dawn London flashed across the screen. _The time is six minutes after five, GMT. The date is Tuesday, August 10, 2027. Sunrise this morning will be at –_

“Shut up, interface,” Sherlock snarled, and the computer screen winked off. 

He dug out a bag of puppy food that he had nicked from Alice Hudson for occasions such as this one - though he would never admit to having that foresight - and shook some of it into a small food bowl. He then poured a separate bowl for water and placed both of them on the floor. Checkers ate greedily, and Sherlock shook his head in exasperation.

This was what he got, he supposed, for not bothering to fix the loose latch on the flat’s door. It hadn’t been possible to actually lock the door for some months now, and when the right combination of windows was open in the flat, it had a tendency to swing open. Sherlock had been meaning to get to it, but it had never seemed very pressing—not when there was a spotty heating system to worry about as well, and an aging electrical system that subjected him to occasional power outages. 

He had been residing in 221B for nearly twenty years now, and the building itself was far older than that. It was only natural that the flat would start to show its age, but it was made all the more ironic by the fact that it had been outfitted in recent years with various bits of the latest technology. Vid screens were affixed to the wall in every room, as video calling was beginning to supplant mobiles, and a voice-interactive computer system had been installed a little under five years ago. Sherlock still preferred to text and manually search the Internet on his own laptop, but with this latest technology there was really no need for him to do any of that.

Some days, he felt as though there was really no need for _him_ now that computer systems were better, faster, and more advanced. But the fact remained that they weren’t clever, and they certainly weren’t intuitive. Sherlock surmised that he had a few good years yet before they would render him obsolete.

In truth, he didn’t find that as disheartening as he would have a decade ago. And two decades ago, that mere thought might have killed him.

“Going soft,” he muttered to himself, and Checkers looked up. “No, I wasn’t talking to you. Though now, of course, I am. Oh, damn it.”

He scrubbed a hand across his face. It was far too early, and he had been living on his own for far too long.

 

Alice Hudson came to retrieve her dog a few hours later, once she had woken and noticed him missing.

“Mr Holmes,” she called, stepping into the flat after giving a perfunctory knock, “what have you done with - oh, _there_ you are.”

Checkers, who had been napping on the sofa, took a flying leap off of his cushion and skittered over to her. Sherlock was working at his desk and didn’t look up from his laptop while Alice cooed and greeted her puppy.

“He came up here on his own; I had nothing to do with it,” he said, trying to infuse some irritation into his voice. Alice looked up and smirked at him.

“And I can see that he was _quite_ the burden on you,” she said. She walked over to him and plucked a golden hair off of his dressing gown, holding it up so that he could see. “Last time I checked, your hair was black.”

“Then you must have looked at it a _very_ long time ago,” Sherlock said as he ran a hand through his hair, which was now sporting so much grey that it appeared as though someone had poured dust on his head. Alice laughed and kissed him on the cheek before moving into the kitchen. She was much like her aunt, in both appearance and manner, and she treated Sherlock with the same motherly affection that Mrs Hudson had once bestowed upon him, even though Alice was several years his junior.

“One of these days,” she called out to him, “I’m going to come in here and find you experimenting on that dog.”

“What makes you think I haven’t already?” Sherlock retorted.

Alice laughed.

“Careful, mister,” she said. “I have both John and Greg on speed dial. The moment you start experimenting on my dog, I’m calling in the reinforcements. And the moment you step _really_ out of line... I’m calling your brother.”

Sherlock winced and glared at her as she came back out into the main room, carrying a cup of sugar and with Checkers trotting at her heels.

“Ran out,” she said with a small shrug. “I’ll owe you one. Do you need anything else? I’m heading out to the shops tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock shook his head. Alice pursed her lips and considered him for a moment. Concern clouded her features.

“I worry about you, you know,” she said at last, quietly, and Sherlock suppressed a grimace. How he hated this conversation. “You haven’t left this flat in days.”

“I’m working,” Sherlock said.

“You’re _always_ working.”

“I’m fine, Alice,” Sherlock said with a forced smile, suddenly wishing that she would leave. He had been on the verge of saying _The work is all I have_ instead, and it was frightening how quickly that thought came to his mind. “This is just how I am. If you asked John, he’d tell you the same thing.”

Alice stared at him for a moment longer, and then finally gave a nod.

“All right,” she said finally. “But if you need anything...”

“I know. You’re just downstairs.”

 

Sherlock worked for the majority of the morning on a private case he had taken up just last week. It wasn’t particularly interesting – merely a case of embezzlement – but the culprit had eluded him thus far and it was enough to keep him occupied for the time being. He finally got up from his desk around nine and went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, which he drank now more out of need than because he liked the taste. He could no longer force his body to function on little sleep and several nicotine patches. He needed the caffeine as an aid.

While he was stirring sugar into his coffee, Sherlock glanced again at the vid screen that was mounted on the wall by the kitchen door. The small red light in the corner was flashing, and he sighed. He must have missed some calls the previous night, and had not noticed them until now. Why couldn’t people just text him?

“Interface, play back message,” he announced wearily to the interactive computer system.

_ There are three new messages _ , the computer informed him, its tinny male voice just as irritating now as it had been at five in the morning. Sherlock groaned.

“Play back messages in chronological order,” he sighed. At once, the vid screen blinked to life, and John’s face appeared.

“Sherlock Holmes, what was the point of installing this bloody thing if you’re never going to use it?” he grumbled.

“It was _your_ idea, John,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. “Remember?”

“... and we’re out of town next weekend visiting Greg’s sister,” John’s image was saying, “but you should come down the weekend after that. You were complaining the other week about it being too damned hot in London right now, anyway. Getting away for a bit might do you some good. Anyway, give me a call sometime, you wanker. We miss you.”

The screen went dark for a moment as the message ended, and then came to life again.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Molly Hooper chirped. “Look, sorry to bother you--I know you’re probably busy--but you haven’t been by the morgue lately, have you? It’s just, well, it seems we’ve misplaced some... toes. Anyway, give me a call back, would you?”

Sherlock sighed. He’d forgotten completely about those and cast a morose glance at the microwave, which he had yet to clean after that particular failed experiment.

“Interface, compose a message to send to Dr Hooper’s lab at Barts,” he said finally, taking a tentative swallow of coffee. “Message should read as follows:  _I borrowed the toes in order to test a theory about my latest private case. I’ll return the surviving toes to the morgue on Monday afternoon_. End message.”

_ Message has been sent to Dr Hooper’s lab at Barts,  _ the computer interface informed him.  _Now playing back the final message._

The vid screen came to life again, and Sherlock straightened as soon as he realised whose face was on the screen.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Detective Inspector Stanley Hopkins said in exasperation, “for God’s sake, man, I _do_ wish you would answer this thing.”

Hopkins looked harried. His dark hair was in disarray from the number of times he had been running his fingers through it, and a day’s worth of stubble shadowed his jaw. He had shed his jacket and tie, his shirt was open to expose a hint of his collarbone, and there were specks of dried coffee just over his breast pocket.

“I’m going to be by later on tomorrow,” Hopkins went on. “I’ve got a case that I’m going to be bringing you in on.”

“Like hell you are,” Sherlock said darkly.  He hadn’t worked a case for the Met in months, and had no intention of changing that anytime soon.

“You won’t have heard about it,” Hopkins continued. “It’s hasn’t made it to the papers yet. Listen, give me a call if you actually look at this tonight. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning.”

A moment later, the screen went dark.

Sherlock pushed a hand through his hair and sighed. It was rare anymore that he worked cases for the Yard. He had withdrawn his aid almost completely upon Lestrade’s retirement five years ago, and had stopped consulting entirely for two Detective Inspectors and their respective teams. 

Hopkins was the sole exception. He was a valuable detective who had risen quickly through the ranks at the Yard, and he had flourished over the years under both Sherlock’s tutelage and Lestrade’s mentoring. When Lestrade retired, Sally Donovan was offered his position, but the role of DI was never one she had wanted to take on. Hopkins, then, was next in line, and he had served the position admirably ever since. He still called on Sherlock, as Lestrade had done in the past, and though Sherlock had long ago stopped helping Inspectors Dimmock and Gregson, he didn’t always say no to Hopkins.

At the same time, Sherlock also couldn’t always be persuaded to work a case for him. He enjoyed Hopkins’ company and always relished an interesting puzzle, but he found that he didn’t derive the same excitement from cases now that he had in the past.

It was different now that John and Lestrade had gone. 

As promised, Hopkins appeared on the flat’s doorstep a little after ten, despite the three threatening—and increasingly graphic—texts Sherlock had sent him. 

“Sherlock!” he called through the closed door, and then brought his fist down on the wood, knocking three times. “Open up, I know you’re home.”

Sherlock made him wait in the stairwell for nearly ten minutes before finally letting him into the flat. Given the loose latch on the door, Hopkins could easily have come in of his own accord. It amused Sherlock to no end, then, that Hopkins couldn’t bring himself to be that presumptuous.

“Inspector,” Sherlock greeted coolly when he finally opened the door. “What do you want?”

“You know damn well what,” Hopkins said brusquely. He brushed past Sherlock into the flat. “I know you’ve seen my message. And, for the record, I don’t think it’s actually possible to ‘string me up **'** by my testicles.”

“Is that a theory you’re willing to test out?” Sherlock gave him a grim smirk. Hopkins arched an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.

“It certainly would be ambitious of you to try.”

They stood there for a moment, staring at one another, irritation flashing in Hopkins’ grey eyes but his face otherwise unreadable.

Stanley Hopkins was severe in every sense of the word. Physically, he was all lines and angles. He had a strong jaw and sharp chin, and his prominent nose was almost beak-like in profile. He was several years Sherlock’s junior, and though he wasn’t a particularly striking man, his features were difficult to forget and he had the benefit of youth working in his favour. 

Hopkins’ demeanor was about as unforgiving as his appearance. Whereas Lestrade had always possessed a gentle understanding and quiet humour, even in the worst of situations, Hopkins had none of his playfulness. He was as strict with his subordinates as he was with himself, and tolerated very little that stepped outside the lines of proper decor. About the only person he allowed any leniency was Sherlock, though that was probably because many years ago their roles had been reversed. Sherlock had once been the seasoned--if unofficial--member of the team, while Hopkins was once new and deferential. 

Sherlock was the one who finally broke eye contact and moved into the kitchen. Hopkins followed.

“I’m retired,” Sherlock said at last. He resumed his seat in front of his microscope. “I’m not taking any cases at the moment. You know that.”

“I do,” Hopkins agreed. He pulled a photograph out of his breast pocket and handed it over. “You’re also only _mostly_ retired. And so I want you to reconsider.”

Sherlock took the picture and glanced at it. It was a copy of a crime scene photograph, and it had been placed in a plastic evidence bag. The victim was a young female, and by all appearances she had been strangled. Her corpse was left unclothed and lying out in the open. Her nails were torn and broken. Teeth marks on her neck and bruises on her hips left little doubt about what kind of horror she had suffered prior to her death, and Sherlock quickly averted his eyes from the photograph.

“Where was she found?” he asked with a sigh, knowing that he wouldn’t get rid of Hopkins unless he made it appear as though he was initially interested in the case. He set the photograph aside.

“Victoria Park. A woman out for a run found the body yesterday morning.”

“Why didn’t you come to me then?”

Hopkins’ expression didn’t change, but the corner of his mouth tightened. “I needed to be sure of something first.”

He wasn’t telling Sherlock everything; that much Sherlock could tell from the facial tic. He let it pass and returned his attention to the photograph of the corpse. 

“She was beaten,” Sherlock said at length. “Raped. Killed within forty-eight hours of sustaining her first injury.”

Hopkins’ jaw clenched.

“Yes,” he said. “We know all of that. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Why else would you be here but to bring me a case?” Sherlock asked scathingly. “Don’t waste my time, Hopkins; I haven’t the patience for games.”

“We can’t figure out her name.”

Sherlock paused. He turned to Hopkins and lifted an eyebrow.

“She doesn’t appear in the national registry?”

Hopkins shook his head.

“No. And her DNA doesn’t match anyone in the national database. She’s an unknown.”

Well, now, that _was_ intriguing. It was rare anymore that the Yard had cases that dealt with unidentified victims. In recent years, most of Europe had catalogued its citizens, and very few people managed to exist off-the-grid. Everything and everyone was on record somewhere. Identification could usually be done at the crime scene, largely by simply scanning a victim’s features and uploading the image to a highly advanced database that only the Yard had access to.

But Sherlock didn’t take cases like these, no matter how intrigued he was by the thought of working to identify an unknown. He hadn’t been called on to look at an unidentified victim in _years,_ and the idea of a new one was somewhat exciting. A rape case, however, wasn’t something he was willing to handle.

“I’m retired,” Sherlock repeated, somewhat reluctantly this time, and he handed the photograph back.

Hopkins considered him for a long moment, his face unreadable. And Sherlock, who was used to gleaning information from even the most inscrutable of people, found this both fascinating and irritating.

“I’d consider it a favour if you could at least come down and take a look at what we have,” Hopkins said at last. He tossed the photograph down on the table. “Keep that.”

He turned on his heel and was gone before Sherlock could protest.

\----

Stanley Hopkins, if Sherlock was being completely honest with himself, was one of the most interesting men he knew. 

Hopkins had John’s nerves and Lestrade’s heart, and curiosity beyond that of either. He asked questions constantly, was endlessly fascinated by Sherlock’s science of deduction, and early on in their association he had started trying to apply Sherlock’s methods to his own work. He had been unsuccessful in his first few attempts, but he learned quickly. Sherlock even began to instruct him on the proper application of his methods, and Hopkins had proved to be quite clever. Not only that, but he was actually enjoyable to instruct.

Hopkins was fiercely loyal, almost to a fault, and he hated the desk part of his job. The only protocols he defied were the ones that kept him chained to the office and, like Lestrade before him, he was always the first to charge into a situation. He was never one for putting his team in danger unless he himself was in peril right along with them.   

He was also the one constant in a shifting world, which in the past five years had seen both Lestrade’s retirement and his moving out of London with John. Sherlock was slowing down as well, and had stopped consulting with everyone at the Yard except for Hopkins, and even then he was very selective about the cases he took--even more selective than normal. The fact of the matter was that, while he himself was just on the verge of fifty, his body felt at least a decade older than that. Hard use in his younger years had aged him quickly, and while he was far from an invalid, there were certain things he simply couldn’t do anymore--or wouldn’t be able to for much longer.

The flat was noticeably quiet in the wake of Hopkins’ departure; the silence was almost oppressive. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking, trying to ignore the crime scene photograph Hopkins had left behind on the table. He shouldn’t have allowed that. He should have pushed the photograph back into Hopkins’ hands before seeing him out. 

Instead, Sherlock had allowed Hopkins to walk away and leave a portion of his case behind. 

_ I’d consider it a favour _ . 

Damn the man. Hopkins was the only person alive who could sometimes manage to get Sherlock to do what he wanted—and he knew it, too.

Their association spanned almost fifteen years now, as Hopkins had been a new transfer on Lestrade’s team when Sherlock returned to London after taking down Moriarty’s network all those years ago. Sherlock, desperate for anything that would keep his mind off what he had lost as a result of dismantling the network, had thrown himself back into the work with great fervor. He even started working cases for Inspectors Gregson and Dimmock in addition to the ones he worked for Lestrade. He kept himself so busy that he hardly had time for food, sleep, or erroneous thought, and very little penetrated his numb mind in the months following Victor’s death. Hopkins had to be introduced to him three times, in fact, before he remembered the Detective Sergeant’s name. 

Sherlock had pushed himself beyond all limits in those months after Victor’s death, and he used Lestrade’s team and cases in order to accomplish it. He had gone upwards of five days without sleep or food, snapped at Lestrade, and once had even tried to throw a punch at John. He reached his breaking point in March of that year. Sherlock couldn’t remember anymore what innocuous event had caused him to snap--a dropped book, a lost file--but he had bellowed and raged, smashed the mirror that hung over the fireplace, and eventually collapsed on the floor, weeping bitterly. He had eventually managed to drag himself off to bed, where he slept on and off for half a week. John and Lestrade hadn’t been home at the time, but the remains of Sherlock’s breakdown had been readily apparent when they returned and it frightened them both.

Sherlock had emerged on the other side with an inexplicable sense of calm, however, and though the pain of his lover’s death never truly faded, Sherlock found that he was able to at least function amid his grief. Lestrade and Gregson, however, were wary to put him on further cases, and Dimmock wouldn’t consult with him for nearly a year.

Hopkins, on the other hand, didn’t change the way he acted around Sherlock. In fact, he had seemed to almost go out of his way to pick arguments with Sherlock, which should have been irritating. Instead, Sherlock had found the behavior inexplicably refreshing, and he came to relish their fights.

Lestrade had once said, in a fit of exasperation, that Sherlock and Hopkins could make a career out of bickering. Considering the fact that they had continued working together even after Lestrade’s retirement, that wasn’t too far off the mark. They argued about everything, from the mundane to the profound, and as many of their lunches ended in shouting matches as did in cordial handshakes. One particularly memorable argument four years ago actually resulted in Hopkins going so far as to ban Sherlock from the Yard--and enforcing said ban for nearly six months.

“It’s no good having a partner who’s an echo chamber,” Alice had told Sherlock once as he sat brooding over how bloody _infuriating_ Hopkins was. “That’s what Aunt Martha always said. And she was right, wasn’t she? She had Alfie there all the way up until the end, and those two fought like the world depended on it. Do you remember?”

In those early days, Sherlock and Hopkins had been known to get into arguments nearly every time they encountered one another. Their disagreements weren’t always fueled by anger, though, but rather by passion for what they were speaking about, in addition to a desire to push one another. It was almost a test, each man trying to figure out what the other could withstand. And Hopkins never let Sherlock off lightly, even in the months after Victor’s death when everyone else was tiptoeing around him and treating him as though he were made of glass.

It had been strangely comforting.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to be rid of the memories. He finally straightened and walked over to the table where Hopkins had left the photograph. He picked it up and scrutinized the body. The dead woman had stretch marks on her stomach but wasn’t visibly pregnant, indicating that she had given birth recently, and there was a faint line of adhesive around her left wrist—likely, the remnants of a hospital bracelet.   

_ I’d consider it a favour _ .

Hopkins never asked for favours. He was brisk and matter-of-fact-- _Will you come or won’t you?_ \--and didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on might-have-beens. If Sherlock outright refused to help him, Hopkins never wasted any time trying to persuade him otherwise.

Not until now, that is.

With a sigh, Sherlock grabbed his mobile and the photograph and left the flat.

\----

For all his idiosyncrasies, Sherlock was a creature of habit.

He had his routines and rituals, and he found that he became more and more mired in his ways as the years passed. He rose every morning with the dawn and rarely stayed up anymore much past eleven. He took his coffee black, with two sugars, as he had done for nearly three decades now. He drank his scotch neat, and only indulged in it after eight in the evening.

And, in the past ten years, more and more of his habits started to include another.

He boxed once a month at the Yard with Hopkins, a habit they had both got into nearly eight years ago when Hopkins expressed an interest in learning the sport and Sherlock realised that his own skills were suffering from disuse. It had been a learning curve for them both. Hopkins had never had any exposure to the sport, and though Sherlock was a skilled boxer, he had found that he needed to retrain himself due to the incident years before that had cost him the final two fingers on his left hand. It was now a monthly ritual for him and Hopkins, and very rarely did they miss a sparring session.

They met for lunch twice a week as well, ostensibly to go over any new or cold cases that Hopkins might want to run by  Sherlock. Although Sherlock wouldn’t take on many cases for the Yard, he nevertheless saw no reason to discontinue his meetings with Hopkins. Their lunches always started out with the best of intentions, and it was understood that they would meet at Angelo’s around noon. But it had been over a month since that last happened. More and more often in recent weeks, Hopkins’ presence was required at the Yard.

That didn’t deter Sherlock, however.

He picked up their customary meals from Angelo at quarter to twelve, as he had every Tuesday and Thursday for the past five weeks, and brought them over to NSY.

Sherlock arrived at the Yard at precisely noon. None of Hopkins’ team or various staff members tried to stop him as he strode towards Hopkins’ office; they were too used to Sherlock’s presence by now to be perturbed by his periodic comings and goings. Even Sally Donovan simply looked up from her desk, gave Sherlock a cordial nod, and returned to her work.

The door to Hopkins’ office was open and the bright fluorescent lights were off. He was working by the sunlight that streamed through the window behind him, head bent low over his paperwork and pen scratching away. He didn’t notice Sherlock lingering in the doorway, and Sherlock paused.

When Lestrade had occupied this office, it had been filled various with odds and ends. Strange plants had dotted the windowsill and knickknacks cluttered up the desk, vying for space amid the pens and papers. Lestrade had been very particular about his mess, though, and always claimed that cleaning it up made him lose things.

Hopkins was about as unlike his predecessor as one could get. Under his reign, the office was kept as strict and disciplined as his team. There wasn’t a paper out of place, a book out of order on the shelves, or a stray pen on the desk. Even the chairs had been neatly arranged, and they sat at perfect forty-five degree angles to his desk.

Very little of the office reflected Hopkins’ personal life, but then, he didn’t have much of one to show off. His life was his work and he preferred it that way. His elderly parents were all that was left of his family--his marriage fell apart five years previous--and Sherlock was the closest friend he had outside the Yard. He worked and drank with his team, and what free time he had was usually spent working overtime, sleeping, or, on occasion, reading. He had a penchant for mystery novels which Sherlock could never understand. 

“You’re just tetchy because you can never figure out who the culprit is,” Hopkins told him once, a smirk in his voice. “You can’t deduce a character from a book the way you can a real person. Must be like being one of us, eh?” 

One of the few things about Hopkins’ personal life that one could glean from a glance around the room was that the Met hadn’t been his first choice for a career. A framed degree hung inconspicuously on the far wall, and it had been awarded to Hopkins by King’s College more than two decades prior. He had pursued engineering while at university, and had obtained a degree in robotics and intelligent systems before deciding to pursue a  career with Scotland Yard instead.

“I needed a change of pace,” was all he ever offered when Sherlock pressed him about the abrupt career change. “Besides, what use is a degree in robotics anymore? Everyone’s got one of those, ever since space travel went commercial and everyone and his mother started manufacturing low Earth orbit craft.”

And up until five years ago, Hopkins’ office had also contained pictures of the dark-haired David, his now-ex-husband. Sherlock had only met the man a handful of times during the five years he was married to Hopkins, but he had come away with the impression that David had been a kind-if-ordinary man who had possessed a quirky sense of humour that seemed quite at odds with Hopkins’ dry manner. Nonetheless, David and Hopkins had got on well together, and Sherlock was under the impression that they still kept in contact. 

But merely getting along wasn’t always enough, as Sherlock had heard often from Lestrade. Hopkins had put it another way.

“Let’s face it, Sherlock,” he’d said morosely one night after he and David had finally signed the divorce papers, “you’re about the closest thing to a long-term relationship I’ve ever been able to maintain. What the hell does that say about me?”

“That you’re frightened of intimacy, so you throw all of your energy into maintaining platonic relationships at the expense of your romantic one,” Sherlock had answered at once, mostly without thinking. It earned him a solid _thwack_ upside the head, though Hopkins didn’t go out of his way to defend himself. 

Hopkins had spent a lot of nights on the sofa in Baker Street that year, and not all of them while sober.

“I can get you a name,” Sherlock announced, forcibly breaking himself out of his thoughts. He stepped over the threshold, acutely aware that he had been lingering in the doorway, staring at Hopkins, for some moments too long. He kicked the door shut behind him and deposited the bag of takeaway on Hopkins’ desk.

Hopkins was busy filling out a form, and he glanced up from his work at the interruption. Sherlock tossed the photograph down onto his desk and went on.

“I can tell you how to find out her name,” he repeated. “But first I want to know what else you have. You’re not telling me everything, Hopkins, and I won’t help you until you do.”

Hopkins tapped his pen against his desk for a moment, considering Sherlock, his face as impassive as ever.

“But you will help us?” he asked finally. “I’ve got no patience for games, either, Sherlock. I’m not here to merely satisfy your curiosity.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, and then finally nodded.

“Conference room,” Hopkins said briskly, getting to his feet. “Let’s get you brought up to speed.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, there will be some liberties taken with police and medical procedures. Don't read further if that's going to bother you.

Sherlock found himself staring at a wall of victims.

A row of photographs covered the far wall. Sherlock recognised Hopkins’ handiwork instantly, as the man was very much a visual thinker. He had pinned up the crime scene photographs of four dead women--cropped so that only their faces were visible--in order from first death to most recent murder. Hopkins had then scrawled the relevant details for each victim on note cards and placed them below each photograph.

The victims were all women. According to the note cards, their injuries were consistent with having been inflicted over a period of forty-eight hours, and they had been raped prior to being strangled and dumped.

And, also according to Hopkins’ note cards, they were all nameless.

“Hopkins,” Sherlock said after several long minutes, “this is a serial killer.”

“Yes,” Hopkins said wearily, “I know. Though the higher-ups would prefer that I called it _a series of possibly-related murders spanning two years_.”

Sherlock spent several seconds sifting through his memories of the past few weeks. Ever since John and Lestrade had moved away, it had been left up to him to scour the newspapers and various media outlets for potential cases. He wasn’t as thorough as John, as he simply didn’t have the patience for it—and _hell_ , was it tedious—but something as big as this wasn’t likely to have slipped his notice.

“I didn’t hear about this,” he said finally. Hopkins nodded.

“You wouldn’t have. We haven’t put out an official press release yet, and the papers haven’t made the connection on their own. Or, if they have, they’re not giving it any coverage.” Hopkins’ words turned bitter. “The victims are all women that no one’s missed so far. The media isn’t going to waste too much time on them.”

They had brought the takeaway with them, but the food had been sitting untouched on the table for close to fifteen minutes now. It was well after noon at this point; the food was long since cold. But Sherlock had neglected to eat this morning, and even the unasked-for thrill of this new case wasn’t enough to distract him from the fact that he was beginning to feel lightheaded. Two decades ago, he could have worked a case for three days straight before feeling the effects of his refusal to eat.

Now, it was just one more thing he couldn’t do.

“All right,” Sherlock said, conceding to his body’s insistence and reaching for a container of food, “take me through it.”

Hopkins drew a breath.

The first victim had been murdered in January 2026. Her body had been found in Regent’s Park late in the month, and there had been signs of rape prior to her death. She had been strangled, had two-day-old bruises and scrapes on her arms, her nails had been torn and broken, and her corpse had been dumped naked. The only curious thing about her body was a streak of grey paint left behind on her hand , which had been noted but had not been deemed relevant to the case.

The second victim was murdered eight months later. Her body was found hidden behind a row of bins, and she’d been sporting two days’ worth of injuries, which supported Hopkins’ idea that the victims only lived for about forty-eight hours after their abductions. She had been discovered naked, her fingertips were bloody, and her corpse had borne signs of strangulation and rape. There was also a smudge of grey paint that covered her left palm.

A connection had not been made between the two corpses at the time because, until victim number three, there had been no connection to make. There had been no reason to believe that the two incidents were related.

But while two events are a coincidence, three incidents are a pattern.

In March of this year, the body of another unknown woman was discovered hidden in an alleyway. She had suffered the same injuries and treatment as the other two victims, and there was the same streak of grey paint on her hand.

“We’re lucky the same team handled the first and third victims. When the third victim was found, one of the sergeants remembered the paint from the first victim, and someone else thought to check for other crimes in London that had resulted in a victim being found with paint on their hands. Hence the discovery of the woman who became victim number two,” Hopkins said as he tapped the picture of the second victim. “Otherwise, we never would have made a connection between the three. It got handed over to our team once the higher-ups realised what we were dealing with.”

Hopkins’ exhaustion was evident this afternoon in his sandpaper-rough words. His voice itself was naturally deep, and his tone was always low whilst his words were usually just a shade above husky. In combination, it had the effect of adding a layer of gravity to even the most innocuous of topics. He never accommodated the clamour; whenever he spoke, all conversation around him ceased. He never had reason to raise his voice, so commanding was his tone. Even Sherlock couldn’t help but listen intently.

“And now there’s a fourth victim, six months after the third,” Sherlock said quietly as he pulled the picture of the unknown woman out of his breast pocket. It was an exact copy of the last one that hung on the wall. Peering at it now, he saw the grey paint on the victim’s palm that was consistent with all the others. He had noticed it earlier, but had not fully registered its presence until now. “That's a large gap between murders. It's entirely possible there are more victims out there that we're simply unaware of."

Hopkins nodded slowly.

"The thought has occurred," he said. "So far, our searches through the various databases have turned up nothing, and I don't have the resources to keep looking. We need to focus on the present until we have reason to start sifting through the past, or this will never get solved."

It was a fair point.

"So what conclusions can we draw?” Sherlock asked.

Hopkins leaned a hip against the long conference table and finally picked up his container of food. He speared a piece of beef on his fork and chewed contemplatively for a moment, staring at the wall of photographs.

“All of the victims are female,” he said. “All of them are unidentifiable, at least at the moment. The grey paint, we can probably safely say at this point, is deliberate. It is always found on their palms, but it doesn’t seem to matter whether it’s the right or left hand. Their bodies were all found dumped somewhere around the city. They were beaten and raped, and when we ran toxicology reports they all had trace amounts of Rohypnol in their systems. The amount of the drug that we found indicates that the original dosage wasn’t enough to render them unconscious, but it would have been enough to disorient them.”

“Or make it appear as though they were drunk,” Sherlock finished. “So wherever your killer abducted them from, he could have made it appear as though he was escorting someone who was impaired by inebriation.”

Hopkins nodded.  

“It explains the lack of restraints,” he said. “None of the victims have marks on their bodies that are consistent with being bound or gagged. He probably abducted them under their own power, and wherever he took them in the intervening forty-eight hours, it must have been secure. There was no chance of them escaping, and so he didn’t bother restraining them.”

“And perhaps he derived some excitement from watching them try to get away,” Sherlock ventured. He rubbed his left hand absently, working the joints between the fingers of his right hand. It hurt him on occasion, and sometimes the pain could be relieved with pressure or heat.

Hopkins visibly winced, but inclined his head.

“It sounds like we have a lot,” he said. “But really, what we have is absolutely nothing. Nothing useful, at any rate. We have no idea why these women were chosen, or who might be a future target. We don’t know where the killer abducts them from, or where he takes them after. We don’t know how he gets the drug into their systems. They are all unidentified, they are all female, they all have paint on their hands, and they all ended up dead somewhere in the city. That’s all we have to go on.”

“And strangulation appears to be the preferred method of murder,” Sherlock said, eyes flicking over the photographs. The women all had deep welts around their necks. Hopkins nodded. “That’s personal.”

“This whole case seems like it _should_ be personal,” Hopkins agreed. “The beatings themselves are brutal, while strangulation forces you to personally, intimately murder a person. It’s not like you can put distance between yourself and a victim, as would be case with a gun. But the women are unknowns, and likely had no personal connection to their killer. And he’s so meticulous about how he commits the crimes. They are methodical and planned out murders; almost sterile. He never slips up or manages to leave anything behind that might point to his identity.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“He’s targeting women who won’t be missed, which is on purpose," he mused finally. "He wants victims who won’t be noticed. He’s counting on the fact that no one out there is pushing for answers, and he’s probably hoping that this will fade away eventually when no further progress is made. He knows that no one noticed these women disappear, and he’s hoping no one cares.”

“Then he’s made a mistake,” Hopkins said. His gaze drifted to the wall of victims. “Because _I_ notice them. And I care.”

And that was Hopkins through and through—the man always seemed to feel too much while Sherlock felt too little. While his cases closed rate was among the highest at the Yard, there had been cases over the years that he simply couldn’t wrap. And he was always the last to give up on an unsolvable case, working long hours off the clock for weeks after his supervisors had to force him to officially close it. He had a tendency to skip both meals and sleep during obsessive periods like that, and would lose a great amount of weight in too short a time.

Sherlock always hated it when Hopkins did that.

And Sherlock wished he could give Hopkins the information he needed to move forward with this case, but there were some things even the Great Detective could not do. Cases like these were one of them.

“Hopkins,” he said finally, pulling Hopkins’ attention back to him, “please don’t misunderstand me when I say this, as I am... grateful that you still find my skills to be of some use. But I don’t think I’ll be of much help to you with this case. There are a few things in this world that are quite beyond me. Sexual assault is one of them.”

To his surprise, Hopkins gave a wry smile.

“Then you’ll be on the same level as the rest of us, for once,” he said dryly. “It’s beyond all of us, too, Sherlock. Do what you can. That’s all I ask.”

Sherlock felt some of his resolve crack. “What is it you need from me?”

Hopkins’ face shadowed.

“I’ve got four unidentified victims, Sherlock. Four women who don’t have names. Do you know how we distinguish them?” He pointed at the first victim. “That’s victim number one. Numbers two, three, and four follow her. They’re _numbers_ , Sherlock.”

“And?”

Hopkins grimaced, and Sherlock realised it must have been a callous thing to say. He made note of it for future reference.

“And no person is just a number,” Hopkins said quietly. “I know you don’t do cases like this. I won’t ask you to work the whole case, if the thought is simply unbearable to you. I just - I just need some names. Help me get at least that much. Please.”

Sherlock considered Hopkins for a long moment. He knew he should just walk away now. He should claim not to know anything and leave Hopkins to handle the case, just as it should be. Even when Lestrade was in charge of this team, Sherlock wouldn’t go anywhere near cases like these. They were horrific and senseless, and far from the types of puzzles that his mind craved.

“It wasn’t his only mistake,” he said at last. “Your killer. Assuming that no one would care about these victims—that wasn’t his only mistake.”

Hopkins frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“She’d given birth recently,” Sherlock told him. “Your latest victim.”

“Yes, we’ve figured that much out,” Hopkins said, waving a hand impatiently, “but -”

“She gave birth in a medical facility.”

Hopkins stopped speaking, his hand frozen mid-gesture.

“Our boys didn’t say anything about that,” he said finally.

“They’re probably still waiting to confirm it. Or they’re more incompetent than I usually give them credit for,” Sherlock said. He tapped the photograph of the fourth victim. “There’s a trace of adhesive on her wrist. Given the fact that she was pregnant not that long ago, it’s safe to assume this is from a hospital bracelet. I’d suggest having your team start checking local hospitals for someone who has given birth no less than two days ago, and probably no more than a week ago, given the fact that the adhesive had yet to come off.”

“If someone had been kidnapped from a hospital, we’d have heard about it,” Hopkins said.

“Yes, which means that she wasn’t kidnapped,” Sherlock said impatiently. “She walked out of her own volition. Your killer slipped up, Hopkins. He abducted an unknown woman who, unluckily for him, had been _seen_ recently. Likely, seen by someone who now knows her name.”

Hopkins was quiet for a moment, thinking. But there was a small light of hope in his eyes, which Sherlock hadn't seen in a while, and the deep lines around his mouth faded ever so slightly.

“I’ll put my people on it. We’ll start searching the hospitals.” The ensuing silence was long but incomplete, and Sherlock knew from experience that Hopkins wasn’t quite finished. “When we find something -”

“The moment you find something,” Sherlock broke in, the last of his resolve breaking as he saw the relief on Hopkins' face, “you come get me.”

Hopkins relaxed visibly.

“I will,” he said, giving a grateful nod. He held out his hand, which Sherlock clasped. “Now get on home. I’m glad you were able to come out on such short notice. And - thank you, Sherlock. I owe you a lot for this.”

\----

Sherlock stopped by the morgue on his way back to Baker Street.

“It was an experiment,” he explained to Molly Hooper while she meticulously filled out an identity tag for the latest body to grace her table. “I was testing the heat resistance of –”

She held up a quick hand, cutting him off.

“I’d rather not know, Sherlock,” she said, though he could tell that she was fighting a smile. “I may work in a morgue, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy hearing about you blowing up body parts in your kitchen. Anyway, what are you doing down here? I thought you were going to be bringing the toes back on Monday.”

“Hopkins required my assistance,” Sherlock said as he went over and placed the toes back in the frigid storage unit he had nicked them from last week. Molly raised an eyebrow at him.

“I thought you weren’t working any cases for the Yard at the moment.”

“I’m not. Well, I wasn’t. And I’m still not technically - what?”

Now Molly was smirking at him.

“It’s just interesting who you’ll make exceptions for, that’s all,” she said. Sherlock glared at her.

“I don’t know what you’re implying, Dr Hooper, but I think you should keep your _deductions_ to yourself,” he said.

“When I’m wrong, I will,” Molly pointed out cheerfully, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Her gaze then dropped to his hand, and she sobered. “Pain, again?”

Sherlock looked down. He hadn’t realized he’d been absently rubbing his left hand again, but Molly was indeed correct. The ache was back.

“We’ve talked about this, Sherlock,” she scolded lightly, taking his fingers between her own and manipulating the joints.

“And I’ve chosen to ignore your diagnosis,” Sherlock said waspishly. He winced. “I’m fine. It’s just overuse.”

“It’s the beginnings of arthritis, and you know it.” Molly released his hand and returned to her work. She knew better than to argue with him for long. “Have you been taking any painkillers?”

“I don’t require any.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Molly sighed, though there was teasing in her tone. “Fine, have it your way. Suffer.”

“I will.” Sherlock’s gaze fell on a bouquet of flowers in the far corner of the room, and he smirked. “And what have we here? A secret admirer, Molly, perhaps one your husband doesn’t know about? Dimmock doesn’t know a rose from a lily, and he’s never sent you flowers in all the time you’ve been married.”

He had meant it only to be teasing, as anyone could tell that Molly had actually bought the flowers herself, but Molly’s face fell and she suddenly looked uneasy.

“Actually…” she trailed off. “I was going to visit the cemetery later this afternoon, and I thought… I thought it might be nice. To – to bring him some… Well. It could really do with a bit of colour, don’t you think? His grave.”

Sherlock felt as though someone had punched him in the gut, and he swallowed hard, knowing it showed in his face. Of all his colleagues, Molly and Lestrade were the only ones who had known Victor—albeit briefly—before his first death. And Molly hadn’t even seen Victor prior to his second, actual death, but she still made the occasional visit to his gravesite and would leave a bouquet of flowers behind. Sherlock couldn’t understand why she would do that for someone she had only known for two years more than two decades in the past.

“She liked him,” Lestrade had explained once. “Hell, we all did. And… I don’t think she does it entirely for him. She does it for you, too.”

Sherlock didn’t understand it, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find it touching.

“Thank you, Molly,” he said quietly, and stooped to kiss her on the cheek. “I’m certain he would appreciate it, if he could.”

She squeezed his arm.

“Go on,” she said quietly. “Get back to the case. You’ve got someone else who needs you, now.”

\------

Sherlock spent the evening puzzling over his embezzlement case. He could really make no further headway on it, though, not until he heard back from his contact within his homeless network, and so he occupied the rest of his evening with mindless tasks. He spent a good hour reorganizing his blog and then worked for a time on a paper he had been writing for a forensics journal. He had written articles and papers for a number of different scientific publications over the years, more so now that John and Lestrade were gone. It helped to pass the time.

_ You’re puttering _ , John would have said, and Sherlock grimaced at the thought. _Look at you. Forty-nine years old, and you’re puttering around the flat at nine o’clock on a Tuesday. God, Greg’s livelier than you are, and he’s got eighteen years on you_.

Sherlock glanced at the clock on the mantel. Lestrade might have been retired, but John kept a regular job at one of their local clinics. His hours were erratic, but he tended not to work much past eight in the evening. Sherlock moved into the kitchen and called up the computer interface.

“Place a call,” Sherlock told the machine. “John Watson.”

He grabbed a heat compress from one of the kitchen drawers while the vid screen rang John. He squeezed it in his right hand until the compress let out a swift _crack_ , indicating that the seal inside had been broken and the chemicals were mixing. It heated quickly after that, and he placed it carefully over the back of his left hand so that it was evenly spread over the joints.

“How long has that been going on?”

Sherlock looked up to see John smiling back at him from the screen. He smiled with his eyes more than his lips, and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepened with his obvious happiness.

“John,” Sherlock greeted, taking a seat at the table. He kicked his chair back so he was balancing on the back two legs, as he always did. “I got your call.”

“This morning.”

Sherlock grimaced. He hated that feature of the vid messaging system. All messages were time-stamped, and then their senders were alerted as to when the recipients actually listened to them. He had a tendency to put off returning vid calls for as long as he could get away with, and John always called him out on it.

“I’ve been occupied,” Sherlock said defensively, and this time it was true. John snorted.

“I can see that,” he said, nodding at Sherlock’s hand. “What did you do to yourself this time?”

“Aged,” Sherlock said, a bit tersely. “It’s likely the beginning stages of arthritis, Molly thinks. It doesn’t act up too often, but I’ve been busy today. Heat helps the… pain.”

He hesitated on the last word, because he hated having to admit that he gave in to his body’s various little protests. John’s face went from amused to concerned.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not surprised, though. You suffered major damage to that hand. It’s no wonder it’s the first part of your body to develop joint problems. Have you tried the standard analgesics? Acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and the like? Use those if you can; they really do help. If it gets worse, I’ve found that corticosteroids also do the trick.”

Sherlock was already well aware of this information, and he pulled another face.

“Fascinating as this all is,” he said dryly, “I’d rather that our conversations for the foreseeable future not include our various ailments.”

John laughed. “Don’t like to be reminded that you’re getting older?”

“It’s unnecessary when my body sees fit to remind me of that anyway at every turn,” Sherlock said irritably. “And anyway, that’s not what your original call was about.”

“No,” John said, a small smile tugging at his lips, “you’re right. I’ll harass you about your health another time.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“We were actually wanting to know if you wanted to come visit weekend after next,” John went on. “Come down, Sherlock; you look like you could use a break.”

“That might well be true,” Sherlock conceded, “but I can’t get away just yet. I’ve taken on a new case for Hopkins. He’ll be needing me here.”

“I’m sure he could spare you for a weekend,” John said, undeterred. His face turned sombre, and he said quietly, “We haven’t seen you since Christmas.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, and though he wouldn’t say so out loud—and certainly not to John—there was a reason for that. The signs of illness had been all too apparent in Lestrade eight months ago, even though he had gone into remission four months before that. He couldn’t have even been called thin at the time; _gaunt_ was a much more fitting descriptor, and it had been more than unsettling. “I’ve been busy.”

But because this was John, he knew exactly what the issue was. His eyes softened. “Greg’s fine, Sherlock. He’s doing well, and the illness won’t be back. He responded well to the cure, and he’s gained back all of the weight he lost. He’s all right, I promise.”

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgment, but the words were of little comfort. There were more illnesses out there, more cancers, all of them lurking in the shadows. There were only so many cures available; eventually, something was going to slip through and strike him down.

Sherlock couldn’t go through that again.

“How’s the flat?” John asked, trying to steer them onto safer territory.

“Too quiet.”

The words were out before Sherlock could stop them, and this time John was the one who winced.

“We had to leave, Sherlock,” he said gently. “There wasn’t a life there for us anymore. And, well, we’d been married eleven years at that point. It was about time we moved in together.”

“I never expected you to stay,” Sherlock said, placating. _I just never thought I’d stay behind_. “It’s fine, John.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Always.” Sherlock gave what he hoped was a wry smile. He wanted nothing more than to ease the tension in John’s brow. “I don’t begrudge you your happiness.”

John laughed at that.

“Oh, where is Sherlock Holmes and what have you done with him,” he chuckled. “Listen, Greg’s just taken the dog out for a walk. He’ll be back soon. Do you want to talk to him?”

Sherlock wavered. On the one hand, yes, he did more than anything. On the other, he wasn’t sure he could bear it. He still wasn’t used to seeing Lestrade at anything less than peak physical health, even though he hadn’t been at his peak in years.

“Give him my best,” he said finally. John nodded, though his eyes were sad.

“I will. And… take care of yourself, would you?” He smirked suddenly. “We don’t need another Duck Incident.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to will away the flush that crept up the back of his neck. “If you’re going to invoke that every single time we talk –”

John held up a hand, chuckling. “No, no, no. Just for the next ten years or so.”

“Fantastic. I’m ringing off now.”

John gave him a quick wave. “Say hi to Stanley for us. Oh, and tell him that he’s invited to come along, too, the next time you come down.”

The screen blinked off, and Sherlock sat staring at his reflection for some moments.

Why would they want Hopkins to come along?

He shook his head—John must have simply misspoken—and returned to his paper.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Small Hobbit for an emergency Brit pick regarding one aspect of this installment.

Hopkins visited Baker Street the following evening.

Sherlock was sitting at the piano in the corner of the flat’s main room, marking up some music, when Hopkins’ distinctive footsteps sounded in the stairwell. A moment later, there was a sharp rap on the flat’s door.

“Come in, Hopkins,” Sherlock called. The door opened, and he heard Hopkins step into the room. Sherlock finished marking his music--he always missed that key change--and returned to his playing.

He had not touched the violin in close to fifteen years, for the incident that cost him the final two fingers on his left hand meant that he could no longer properly play the instrument. It pained him sometimes to even hold it aloft, in fact.

The piano was a different matter, however. While it was true that the missing fingers limited his dexterity and the ability to hit some of the notes in bass clef, the injury did not prevent him from playing entirely. He simply needed to adapt the music to suit his needs, whether that meant rewriting some of the bass line or making sure he was nimble enough to change hand positions halfway through a line or measure. He could even play one-handed, if the left pained him too much. Sherlock found that playing music was quite relaxing; composing music was doubly so.

Hopkins lingered politely in the main room, quiet, until finally his silence became too much and Sherlock could no longer concentrate.

“Oh, for God’s sake. What?” he asked irritably, swiveling on the bench so that he was facing Hopkins. Once glance at the man, however, told him all that he needed to know. “You have a name.”

Hopkins nodded wordlessly.

“Her name was Jessica Thompson,” he said after a moment, as though the words physically pained him and took some effort to say. “You were right - she’d just had a baby in one of the local hospitals. A little boy. Named him Thomas right before she walked out of that hospital.”

“How did she come to be at the hospital in the first place?”

Hopkins shrugged slowly.

“They say she walked in off the street, clearly about to give birth. She didn’t give them anything more than her name, and then one for the baby after he was born. She managed to walk out under the noses of half a dozen nurses. Left the baby behind.”

“Homeless?”

Hopkins shook his head. “The staff doesn’t think so. She mentioned a flat to one of the nurses, and said something later on about having to be back at work within the week. But she didn’t give any contact information for family members, and our searches through the database haven’t turned up anything yet.”

“It’s possible she gave the staff a fake name,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“No – sorry, I wasn’t clear. Bit tired and all.” Hopkins gave a wan smile. It faded quickly. “I mean, there’s nothing for the databases _to_ find. The name is real, all right; she’s just not listed in the national registry. We found her in the media archives. She was mentioned in a newspaper about ten years back. The picture matches that of our victim, so that's how we were able to confirm the name. But there’s no family left that we can find. Her parents died years ago, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else in her life. We’ll keep looking, but it appears as though she was truly on her own. And, for some reason, she managed to slip off the grid.”

Sherlock frowned. He braced his hands on his thighs and leaned forward, thinking.

“She must have come across your killer not long after leaving the hospital,” he said finally. “Strange, though. Why target her?”

“Why target any of them?” Hopkins pointed out. “None of the others had given birth, though. Does that mean something?”

“I don’t think that really matters to your killer. He wants women who won’t be missed, but apart from that, there seems to be no connection between them. They have different colored hair, different eyes, and different statures. There’s nothing that physically links them,” Sherlock answered.

He pushed himself to his feet. His left hip popped in protest, and he grunted in irritation. He glanced at the wall above the mantel, his usual spot for hanging information that was pertinent to a case. But the space had already been filled with photographs from his latest private case.

“Here, help me clear this off,” Sherlock said finally, indicating a large wooden table in the corner that was stacked with miscellaneous papers and books. Hopkins obliged, and they began to stack the books on the floor or other small tables around the flat.

“Now we just need to - Oh, Christ,” Sherlock swore as he dropped a heavy tome.

“Here, let me -”

“No, I have it,” Sherlock said briskly, waving Hopkins away. He stooped to gather the scattered papers and settled them back between the pages of the book, for he knew precisely where each one belonged and it would take too long to instruct Hopkins on their placement. He straightened, tucked his Saint Christopher medal--which had fallen out of his shirt as he bent at the waist--back in place, and then finished arranging his papers.

“You forgot one,” Hopkins said quietly.

Sherlock looked up to see Hopkins holding out a photograph to him. He took it with a nod of thanks and slid it carefully between pages 250 and 251 of the book he was holding, trying not to focus too much on the image of Victor’s smiling face—and his own. They weren’t looking at the camera, but rather at each other, and Victor was laughing openly while Sherlock grinned. He couldn’t remember anymore what had been so amusing.

There wasn’t much of Victor in the flat. He had never lived here, and so the building had never truly felt his absence. But Sherlock had, acutely, in the months following his death, and he had suffered under the crushing weight of all they would have had if Victor had lived. And so, in the year following his passing, evidence of his existence began to accumulate both around the flat and in Sherlock’s life.

It had started with the pendant, Victor’s Saint Christopher medal, which Sherlock had worn around his neck since the day of Victor’s diagnosis. Then came the photographs – pulled from storage, they were now mostly tucked between the pages of his books. Three of them were actually displayed in the flat – one on the mantel, one on the piano, and another in Sherlock’s bedroom.

None of them depicted Victor past the age of thirty, and the only thing Sherlock possessed from their final eighteen months together was a letter, written by Victor on his deathbed, that was currently tucked between the pages of one of his apiology texts– one love being preserved and protected by another.

“You look happy there,” Hopkins commented into the silence. Sherlock nodded slowly.

“I was,” he said softly. “ _We_ were. That was his thirtieth birthday. I don’t remember who took the picture.”

He could see Hopkins doing the mental calculation in his head.

“That must have been right before the accident,” he said finally, referring to the car crash that left Sherlock believing Victor was dead for four years – until Moriarty forced him off a building and back into his partner’s arms.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice unexpectedly strained. “It’s the last picture anyone ever took of him, I believe.”

Hopkins’ face twisted in sympathy, and Sherlock looked away.

Victor’s story was now well-known to even casual readers of John’s blog. He had taken six months to  compose the series of entries, which covered their university days all the way through Victor’s first death, and had published them on his site in the year after Sherlock’s return. He told his readers of Victor’s involvement in the Great Fall; how he had faked his death in order to accomplish a mission for Mycroft; how he had accompanied Sherlock on the Great Hiatus and then eventually perished– for good this time– whilst keeping Sherlock safe. John had changed many details and omitted others so as to protect the true reason why Victor faked his death—and in order to be in compliance with Mycroft’s orders about not giving away any specific information regarding Victor’s various missions—but the gist of the story had been preserved. Victor was spectacular, Victor was everything to Sherlock, and Victor died.

The details of the Hiatus itself, however, John had glossed over entirely, even though Sherlock had provided him with all the necessary information in order to write about it.

“I’ll do it, if you want me to,” he had said. “But those were your final months together. I thought you might like to have something that you and you alone shared with him--even if they’re only memories.”

Victor was something that Sherlock didn’t generally discuss with others, and no one usually brought him up in Sherlock’s presence. Hopkins was the only one who could ask about Victor and actually get an answer, though Sherlock usually didn’t like to dwell too long on the subject.

“As I was saying,” Sherlock said finally, shaking his head to be rid of his thoughts, “now all we need is a large map. There should be one behind the bookcase.”

Hopkins fetched the map while Sherlock collected the case notes and a marking pen. They laid the map out on the table.

“The first victim was discovered in Regent’s Park,” Hopkins narrated quietly from his notes while Sherlock marked up the map. “Number two was found behind the bins of a house in south London. Number three was discovered in an alley behind a restaurant in Southwark, and the fourth victim was abandoned near Victoria Park, just off Grove Road.”

“Four different victims, four different locations,” Sherlock murmured under his breath. He flicked his eyes over the map, looking for a possible pattern. “They were from different walks of life, and all were likely heading different places. So what do they have in common prior to death? Apart from being female and unidentifiable.”

“There’s only one thing I can think of,” Hopkins said slowly, “that brings together a disparate group of people and unites them under one common banner.”

“Religion.”

“Yeah,” Hopkins said, nodding. “Or a cult. It might explain the paint– that could be part of a ritual of some kind.”

“Careful, Hopkins,” Sherlock cautioned. “We mustn’t theorize ahead of more data; otherwise we run the risk of twisting the evidence to fit the theories instead of the other way around.”

“Theories are really all we have right now,” Hopkins pointed out quietly, and never before had Sherlock heard him sound so dejected. Lacking any proper response to that, Sherlock turned back to the map. Answers were the only thing that would help Hopkins right now, and Sherlock was determined to find him some.

There was something they all had been missing, some sort of connection between the victims. The killings were random, the only common factor being that all the victims were unlikely to be missed when they disappeared. The killer would have likely been able to do no research on his victims prior to their abductions, as they wouldn’t have appeared in any of the databases that were accessible to the public. 

Quite possibly, the killer used his phone to scan the victims’ faces from afar in order to ensure that they didn’t show up in any of the public databases. Or it was entirely possible that he had hacked into and illegally accessed the private police databases in order to further ensure that his potential victims were unknowns. Either way, selecting a victim would have to have been done on-the-spot; he wouldn’t have known about any of his victims until immediately prior to kidnapping them.

The killer didn’t plan out who he was going to kidnap, then. He didn’t know anything about his victims – not their ages, their names, their backgrounds, or their appearances. There was no way to research an unknown. The killer didn’t know where they were headed; he didn’t know where they had come from.

There was only one thing he could be certain of—that no one would miss them. And there was only one connection between all the victims that _he_ alone controlled.  

“Hopkins,” Sherlock said slowly, “has your team run an analysis on the paint found on the victims?”

“Forensics was working on it, last I checked,” Hopkins said. He was being purposely vague; he had always been more reserved than Lestrade about sharing information with Sherlock prior to knowing its relevance to a case. “Why?”

“Have they finished it yet?”

Hopkins’ eyes narrowed, and he repeated, “Why?”

Sherlock shoved his own computer into Hopkins’ hands and then moved over to a nearby interface, which had been built over the spot on the wall where many years ago he had spray-painted a smiley face and then shot half a dozen bullets into it.

“Access your secure database; see if they’ve posted the test results.”

Hopkins grumbled at Sherlock’s abrasiveness but complied while Sherlock searched for images of the various structures in all the Royal Parks.

“The only thing they’ve released so far are all the different images of the painted hands,” Hopkins said after a moment. “Why -?”

He broke off, having glanced up and seen what image Sherlock had called up on the computer interface. Realisation bloomed across his features, and Sherlock felt a small swell of pride at how quickly Hopkins had caught on.

“You see it.”

“Well, that’s interesting,” Hopkins muttered. He glanced down at the computer he was holding, and then back at Sherlock’s screen. “Bloody hell.” 

There were various structures in all the London parks that had been painted a uniform steel grey, the same shade of grey that appeared on the victims’ hands. Benches, railings, drinking fountains—all were the same regulation shade of silver-grey, and they had been for the past ten years.

Sherlock tapped a button the computer interface, and the scene switched. Now they were panning over benches along the banks of the Thames, which also had been painted that same shade of grey. Another tap of the button, and the computer interface pulled up grey railings and grey benches on publicly-owned tracts of land, and grey doorframes and roofs on some government buildings.

“A good portion of London underwent massive renovations in 2017, right at the end of the last war,” Sherlock said unnecessarily, because Hopkins knew all of this already. But it felt good to narrate to an audience again.  “This involved, among other things, re-painting a good number of structures so that they were all the same shade of grey. It was mixed specially for London, and it can’t be obtained commercially. _Silver Sea Glass_ , they call it. If you tell Anderson what you want to compare it against, I’m sure he’ll be able to confirm that the paint used for this project is the same kind that appears on your victims’ hands.”

Hopkins stared at the interface for a long time, and then back down at the laptop in his arms.

“So what you’re trying to say,” he said finally, “is that it would appear that this killer somehow abducts his victims without being noticed, tortures them, kills them, paints their hands with paint you can’t actually buy anywhere, and then dumps their bodies somewhere in London. And all of that within forty-eight hours.”

Sherlock stepped back from the computer interface.

“That’s not all,” he said quietly. “I think your killer must be employed by the Greater London Authority in some capacity—whether he’s a city official or part of a landscaping crew. He might even be an employee of the Royal Parks. That’s the only way he would have been able to get hold of the specific colour and type of paint that’s appeared on your victims’ hands. It was mixed _only_ for London’s use, not for private citizens.”

Hopkins drew a deep breath through his nose.

“This makes no damn sense, Sherlock,” he said finally, his words harsh. “No damn sense at all.”

“And yet, it is the most plausible explanation for the evidence we have on hand,” Sherlock pointed out. 

But it felt all wrong, trying to apply logic to a situation like this. It was as though he was forcing together pieces of a puzzle that were close but not a perfect fit for one another. He was trying to mash reason and logic into this sorry mess of a case, but rationality had nothing to do with crimes like this.

Hopkins blew a breath through his teeth. “There are thousands of Greater London employees, Sherlock. It’d take all the resources I _don’t_ have to search through them, and it would take months, if not years, to properly investigate all of them. And who knows if he’s still an employee! He could have been fired or resigned in the meantime, and simply held onto that paint for ten years.”

Hopkins set the laptop down and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“And where does the killer abduct these women from in the first place?” he asked. “And why _them_?”

Sherlock gave a small shrug.

“That’s merely speculation at this point. Wherever he abducts them from, it’s probably a busy area. The most effective way to hunt is in the middle of a crowd. As for _why_ he abducts these particular people, or why he has a need to do it at all—you may never have the answer to that, Hopkins.”

“You’re a right comfort,” Hopkins muttered. “So this killer probably hunts in the middle of a crowd… and he buries his victims in the middle of one, too. There’s no better way to destroy evidence than to have it trampled by a frequented path or washed away by the weather before we have a chance to get to it. Damn it.”

He rubbed his temple with one hand, a sure sign that he was beginning to develop a headache.

“I feel as though I’m going to be leaving with more questions than I came with,” he sighed. “All right. So we have a serial killer who perhaps used to work for Greater London—or still does—and he hunts women who are unidentifiable.”

“And his victims generally have about forty-eight hours to live once they’ve been abducted,” Sherlock added. He turned to Hopkins, grave. “You have a serial killer who surfaces once every several months. He leaves behind no evidence, no clues, and victims that no one will miss. And he’s had a two-year head start on you, Hopkins.”

Hopkins’ expression turned to stone.

“Perhaps. But there’s one thing he didn’t count on.” Hopkins snatched his suit jacket off the back of the chair and whipped it on before grabbing his things and making for the door.

“What’s that?”

“Me landing the case,” Hopkins snarled. “Bastard’s not getting away with this. I’ll be in touch.”

He bounded down the stairs and slammed the door shut on his way out of the building.

\----

The cemetery where Victor was buried had been his resting place for twenty years, though he had only been dead for fourteen of them.

He was now buried on the opposite side of the cemetery from where his fake grave had been for six years. A stone of marble marked the resting place, and it had been set into the soil so that it wasn’t noticeable unless one was standing directly over it. The grass grew tall on either side of it, largely obscuring it from view so that only a rectangle-shaped indentation in the ground was visible from afar.

Sherlock had also had a grave in this very cemetery for the eighteen months that he had been dead all those years ago. His tombstone had been outlandishly large, and one of the first things he’d done upon his return was have it demolished. There was an empty plot next to Victor’s current headstone, and though Sherlock never offered his own eventual demise much thought beyond the knowledge that it was inevitable, he did have the foresight to make sure that he would be buried next to his partner after his own passing.

He had no belief in an afterlife of any kind. But the knowledge that his remains would decompose not feet from Victor’s own – well, it was somewhat of a comfort. They had had too few years together whilst Victor was alive, but they would at least not be separated in death.

Sherlock knelt before the grave, his knees sinking into the soft earth. He felt the dew from the grass soak through his trousers, and his left knee cracked in protest. The ground was cold at this early hour; Victor’s headstone, when he reached out to brush his fingers over the letters, was chilled.

  


_ _

_Victor Trevor_

  


†

_ _

_8 March 1977 – 25 December 2012_

  


  
He didn’t often visit the cemetery, but it had been a habit to come on occasion ever since the day he buried Victor. He found that there was no true pattern to his visits, only that there were times when he felt compelled to come, as though an invisible thread connected him to this place and pulled him here when it felt that he needed it most.  


It was most peculiar, and more than a little irritating, that he should feel compelled to perform a task that was so mundane, and so _ordinary_.

It was even more annoying when, at some point, Sherlock felt the need to _address_ the headstone, as though he was actually speaking to Victor. It was irrational, and something that only ordinary people who had no grasp on the realities of life did when a loved one passed away. They did it to ease their minds and allay their own fears, when really they should have resigned themselves to the reality that the person they were addressing could no longer hear them, and that they would eventually suffer the same fate.

Sherlock knew all of this, of course, and yet he found it was impossible _not_ to say something now when he visited Victor’s grave.

It was an inexplicable comfort.

“Hello, old friend,” he greeted quietly. He brushed his fingers over Victor’s name. “It’s been awhile, I know.  Far longer than it should have been. I’m sorry. This year… it hasn’t been the best.”

He almost added _I hope things have been well_ , but even that was too absurd for him to voice out loud. There was nothing left of Victor that existed anywhere in this universe; Sherlock wasn’t actually addressing anything that could sense his presence or note the passage of time.

It was nice to pretend that he was, though, even if only for a few minutes.

“Hopkins brought me a case the other week,” he said. There were people over the next rise milling about another headstone, but apart from that the cemetery was deserted this morning. “A rape case. I don’t do those, but the victim was unknown and he wanted—he needed a name. I was able to give it to him. There are three other victims, and I don’t want – but he needs this. He needs my help. So I’m going to try.”

He brushed a handful of dead leaves off the grave marker and then traced Victor’s name again.

“John and Lestrade want me to visit,” he went on. “I’ve only been a few times since Lestrade fell ill. He’s doing well now. He responded to the cure, at least, so the illness won’t be back. But I just couldn’t – not after what happened to you. I couldn’t watch that again.”

He rubbed his hands together, trying to press some heat back into his cold fingers.

“You know, if you’d fallen ill just a few years later, you’d still be here. With me,” Sherlock added quietly. “It’s incredible how quickly science and technology advance when there’s a war on, isn’t it? Of course, knowing Mycroft, he’d have sent you off into the thick of it on some intelligence-gathering mission or some such nonsense. He was always sending you away from me.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. Too often in the years following Victor’s death he had found himself imagining—with unhealthy regularity—what their lives might have been like together had Victor survived. When the war broke out three years after his return, Sherlock had found himself sinking into a well of bitterness, for he knew what that would have meant for them. For nearly all the years he and Victor had been together, he had been the partner of an agent—Mycroft’s agent, no less. Victor was always being sent to remote corners of the globe and getting involved in bloody conflicts, all on Mycroft’s word. Unless Victor had retired from Mycroft’s service, he likely would have been sent away again three years after their return to England.

The Conflict of 2015—it had actually never been classified as a war, not technically, but Sherlock couldn’t see the difference—had been brief, but the effects of the war were lasting. It had cost millions of lives and rendered every world map in use prior to that date obsolete. In the months and years following the treaty signing, boundaries had been redrawn and topographic maps had to be redone, as great swaths of the globe had been altered by weapons and people. 

But the war, as with every conflict before it, had spurred on new technological advances. Computer interfaces became common in homes in the years after the Conflict, while low-Earth orbit craft began selling commercially. A revitalized, worldwide space program launched the first humans to Mars in 2020, and seven years on there was now a fledgling colony on the planet. The first space elevator was currently under construction, and manufacturers were now setting their sights on constructing the first medium-Earth orbit craft.

The medical community had also benefited greatly from the technology and research that came out of the Conflict. The first cures for certain types of cancers had been made available to the public three years after the war, while advanced prosthetic devices went commercial a year after that, meaning that Sherlock could have replaced the two fingers he was missing and had a fully functioning hand once again—one that could grip, move, and feel just as well as a completely organic hand. But doing that felt like a disservice to Victor’s memory—like a slap in the face to the man who had risked everything in order to make sure Sherlock had received the care he’d needed at the time—and so Sherlock had refused the procedure.

And by the time peace had been declared in the fall of 2017, organs were successfully being grown in the lab without a human donor. Organ replacement rapidly became a commonplace procedure as a result. There was never a shortage, and they could be obtained quickly. Had Victor fallen ill then instead of in 2012, he would have likely lived thanks to that particular technology. 

Sherlock crossed his arms tightly over his chest, suppressing a shudder that didn’t have much to do with the actual temperature. The Conflict could have led to Victor’s survival, but it might have just as easily cost Victor his life.

It was another _what if_ in a sea of maybes; another question that Sherlock had grappled with for years. Victor might have been taken from him prematurely anyway, even if he had survived the poisoning. The truth of the matter was, no matter how much Sherlock had wanted to entertain the possibility of them creating a future together, he had never truly been able to envision that life.

He had never been able to picture growing old with Victor. 

“Alice has a new puppy. I think you’d have liked him. He reminds me of Jasper sometimes.” Sherlock found himself giving an unbidden smile at the memory of Victor’s dog, the bull terrier pup that had been responsible for their first meeting. It faded quickly. “You’d be fifty years old now. God, you’d’ve hated that.”

Sherlock gave a wet laugh at the thought. Victor’d had a streak of vanity he usually managed to hide, but Sherlock had always seen through it. 

He pressed the back of his hand to his nose.

“I’d have joined you in a few months,” he went on, his voice rough. “Fifty years old come January. We’d have done it together, you know—grown old and fat, just like you said.” Sherlock swallowed hard. “You were supposed to be here, Vic. I don’t want to keep doing this alone.”

He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of control over himself.

“I miss you,” he said softly to the headstone. “Most days, I don’t know how I manage without you.”

A breeze brushed against the side of his face, lifting his curls and scattering leaves across Victor’s grave again. He swept them away, and then rapped his knuckles lightly against the stone.

“I’ll be back,” he said, because he could never bring himself to say goodbye. He pushed himself to his feet and abruptly walked away, forcing one foot in front of the other, his gait unsteady.

Leaving was always the hardest part.

\----

Hopkins canceled their lunch the following Thursday, which was unusual for him. They had both long ago grown used to accommodating one another, even if it meant forgoing a traditional meal at a restaurant in favour of eating takeaway in an office, or pushing it back so late in the day that it would have been more proper to call it dinner rather than lunch.

But Sherlock had been working on polishing a paper anyway, one that he needed to submit to his editor by the end of the week in order to make the publication deadline. There was also the issue of an experiment that had been plaguing him for the better part of last week, and he had scarcely had a chance to devote any amount of time to it until now. The embezzlement case remained unsolved, too, and Sherlock was mulling over that in the back of his mind as well. In truth, Hopkins’ cancellation came at the perfect time, and it allowed Sherlock to start to make some headway on his various projects.

_ I owe you one _ , Hopkins texted later that afternoon, once he had finally detached himself from a meeting with the Superintendent—his form of an apology.

_ If we were keeping score, you would owe me a small country by now _ , Sherlock replied. He got a very rude message in response and cocked an eyebrow in bemusement. He’d never heard that particular phrase before, and had to at least admire Hopkins for his creativity.

The afternoon wore on. Alice Hudson started her weekly cleaning of 221C, and Checkers slipped out of their flat and stole up to 221B while she was otherwise occupied. The puppy curled up on the sofa and slept for the majority of the afternoon, only once getting up and demanding that Sherlock pay attention to him. Sherlock indulged him briefly--though he would never admit it, not even under duress--and spent a surprisingly relaxing half an hour tossing a small ball around the flat, watching in some amusement the lengths Checkers would go to in order to retrieve the toy. Eventually, he wore out and fell asleep once again.

“Sometimes I think he’s more your dog than mine,” Alice said when she came to check on them later, but the smile on her lips told Sherlock that she truly didn’t mind. “I’ll leave him up here for a while, shall I?”

“That’s really not necessary -”

“Nonsense!” she said, patting his shoulder. “It’s too quiet up here. He’ll do you some good. Checkers will come downstairs when he’s good and ready.”

Checkers remained on the sofa, however, for a further three hours, despite Sherlock’s many attempts to coax him downstairs. He had just given up and returned to his experiment when the door to the flat opened again, and he suppressed an irritated sigh. How was he supposed to get anything done with these constant interruptions?

But the footsteps weren’t Alice’s, and the quiet “Sherlock?” belonged to a male.

“In here, Hopkins,” Sherlock called to him from the kitchen, instantly relaxing once he realised who was there.

“This place smells like burning rubber,” Hopkins called back. Sherlock heard him kick off his shoes.

“Does it?” Sherlock asked absently. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“That’s ‘cause you’ve been locked up in here all afternoon.” Hopkins finally appeared in the kitchen doorway. He loosened his tie and gave a quick, rare smile. “Hello.”

Hopkins had a tendency to smirk  more often than he smiled, his long mouth cutting diagonally across his face like a pink gash. Usually, however, his thin lips were set into a straight line, and very little amusement twinkled behind his eyes. That made moments like these--moments when his eyes crinkled and one corner of his mouth curved upwards--all the more poignant, because they were so rare.

Sherlock found himself returning the expression.

“Hello,” he said, warmth spreading unexpectedly through his chest. “Is this our lunch, then?”

Hopkins moved back out into the main room. He tossed his tie over the back of a chair and rolled one of his shoulders until it popped.

“I thought it might serve. How’s - _crap_. Sorry, Victor,” Hopkins muttered to the picture he had nearly knocked off the piano as he brushed by the instrument. He straightened it and then patted the frame apologetically before taking a seat on the rug in front of the cold fireplace. He whistled, and Checkers came running over to him. “How’s the experiment coming?”

“That would depend on how you choose to look at it.”

“Eh?” Hopkins asked as Checkers settled in his lap and began chewing enthusiastically on one of his shirt buttons.

“From my perspective, it’s going quite well,” Sherlock said. He capped the beaker he was holding and set it aside. “I’ve made a good deal of progress tonight.”

“And from my perspective?”

“It’s going rather dismally, because this experiment means that the kitchen can’t be utilized for cooking purposes for at least the rest of the night. Perhaps even for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Sherlock, are you telling me that we’re having takeaway _again?”_

“It would seem to be the preferable alternative to not eating,” Sherlock pointed out. Hopkins scooped Checkers into his arms and came back into the kitchen.

“That’s _six_ meals now, do you realise? Six times we’ve had takeaway in the past few weeks,” Hopkins said in indignation, but the light behind his eyes told Sherlock that he was more amused than put out.

They usually tried to alternate their shared meals between takeaway and home-cooked food, but that had been more difficult lately with Hopkins' schedule and Sherlock's general disdain for the amount of time it took to make a meal. He only found it tolerable when Hopkins was there to assist; otherwise, it was downright tedious.

“I am capable of counting, yes,” Sherlock said with a smirk, and Hopkins glowered at him.

“Fine, but you’re making the call. I’ve had to speak to too many people already today,” he grumbled. He then looked down at Checkers, who bumped Hopkins’ chin with his nose and then licked his face. “See, Checkers agrees with me.”

“You’re going to regret that later,” Sherlock muttered as he reached for his mobile.

Indeed, half an hour later, they were seated in the kitchen with takeaway containers spread out on the table, and Hopkins was valiantly trying to keep up his end of the conversation between bouts of sneezing.

“I did warn you,” Sherlock said. He reached behind him and rummaged in a nearby kitchen drawer, emerging after a few moments with some allergy medication he had taken to keeping around the flat for Hopkins. Alice was fond of pets, and before Checkers there had been two cats who had frequented Baker Street. Hopkins couldn’t resist the animals, despite his allergy, which made him a fool--albeit an endearing one. Sherlock found it saved them all a lot of time if he kept medicine at the ready for Hopkins.

Had it been anyone else, he would simply have advised them to avoid the flat--in fact, he would have been glad of it. He might be growing softer in his old age, as John often liked to tease, but Sherlock still regarded keeping the company of others to largely be a waste of time. Hopkins, as ever, was one of only a few exceptions.

“Thanks,” Hopkins said, his voice thick, and he swallowed two of the pills dry. Checkers sat patiently at his feet, awaiting the scraps of food Hopkins always assured Sherlock he wouldn’t slip the dog, and yet somehow always managed to drop anyway.

“I take it there’s nothing new in regards to your case,” Sherlock said finally, and then immediately regretted bringing the subject up. At once, Hopkins face became shadowed, and he dropped his eyes to his food.

“No,” he said darkly. “I’m afraid not.”

Sherlock wisely dropped the subject.

Hopkins lingered for a while after they had finished eating, but his previous good mood never fully returned. Sherlock made him a drink and they retired to the main room.

“Stars are bright tonight,” Hopkins commented absently. He stood at the window, drink in hand, looking out onto the city and the sky.

“The stars are bright every night,” Sherlock pointed out, and Hopkins hummed in agreement.

“S'pose you're right. They just seem particularly lovely tonight.” Hopkins took a long swallow from his drink. “Looks so peaceful out there.”

His voice was bleak, and the light from the streetlamp outside highlighted the deep lines of stress that had etched themselves into his face. Sherlock could tell that it wasn’t just the nature of the case that was bothering Hopkins; it was the fact he felt as though he had utterly failed the victims from the start. Sherlock had grown accustomed to Hopkins’ bouts of melancholy over the years, and had long ago learned to read the signs in his face and body language. 

“Hopkins,” Sherlock said after some long minutes of silence, “there's nothing you could have done differently with this case. You know that.”

“I do,” Hopkins said, turning to look at him. His eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion. “I do, truly. I think that makes it worse, though. There's _nothing_ I could have done differently. I'm not brilliant the way you are, Sherlock. I don't see the connections you do. If I did... things might have unfolded differently.”

“No, you aren't brilliant in the way that I am. No one is,” Sherlock said. “But you _are_ brilliant, Stanley. And if I can't make any headway on your case now, given all the evidence you had from the beginning, then you wouldn't have been able to at the start. Remember that.”

But now Hopkins was looking at him oddly.

“Since when do you call me Stanley?”

Sherlock blinked at him, and then thought back on his words.

“Hopkins, I mean,” he muttered. He turned back to his laptop in order to have something to do with his hands. “Hopkins.”

Hopkins shrugged.

“Don’t think I really mind, actually,” he said quietly.

Hopkins downed the rest of his drink and then sprawled on the sofa to watch a mindless television programme—they were all mindless, really—while Sherlock returned to his work and continued to peck away at his paper. His gaze kept straying, however, and he found himself focusing more on Hopkins’ lithe form than on his paper. He was wearing an ocean-blue shirt today that contrasted nicely with his grey eyes, and from their sparring sessions Sherlock knew that sinewy legs were hidden under Hopkins’ trousers. His Adam’s apple bobbed down the long column of his neck every time he swallowed, and long fingers raked methodically through Checkers’ hair. The puppy was curled up on Hopkins’ chest and sleeping soundly. The television droned on in the background.

Sherlock bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, and the sharp stab of pain was enough to break his mesmerized stare. He managed to force his eyes back to his paper and sat there for some moments, swallowing past a dry throat whilst staring blankly at the page. Hopkins had the kind of features that grew more appealing as one continued to look at him. He wasn’t particularly attractive on the first or even the second glance, but after fifteen years of association with the man, more and more often Sherlock found himself unable to look away from Hopkins. He was undeniably striking, and it was getting harder to ignore.

“Bang-on timing, as ever,” Sherlock muttered to himself, shaking his head and trying to will away the sudden warmth that coiled behind his navel. “Fantastic.”

“What’re you muttering about over there?”

“I believe talking to one’s self is a hallmark of getting old,” Sherlock said smoothly.

“I don’t think that’s what it’s a hallmark of, old man.”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock contemplated leaving for bed several times over the next hour, as exhaustion had been tugging at his mind and limbs for some time now. But he was reluctant to leave Hopkins’ company, and he knew that Hopkins was going to severely regret falling asleep on the flat’s sofa. Though he was no stranger to crashing at Baker Street, sleeping on the old sofa always wreaked havoc on his back. And so finally, as midnight came and went, Sherlock put away his computer and started to nudge the half-asleep Hopkins towards the door.

“You’re all right driving?”

Hopkins stifled a yawn with the back of his hand and then gave a wan smile. “Of course.”

“You’ll call if you find anything.” It was more a demand than a question. Hopkins nodded.

“Count on it. See you on Tuesday?”

Sherlock shook his hand in parting.

“Tuesday.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock finally wrapped up his embezzlement case during the second week of September. His client was profuse in her thanks, and though he received a tidy sum for his efforts—enough to cover the rent for at least the next year—Sherlock found that he was discontent with the whole thing. He had been working on that case for a solid month, and though the outcome was eventually in his favor, he couldn’t help but feel dissatisfied. It had never taken him so long to wrap a financial case before.

He was slipping.

“Oh, do stop brooding, brother dear. It was a momentary lapse, nothing more.”

Sherlock started violently and then sighed once he realised what had happened. He passed a hand over his face.

“Mycroft,” he growled, “I have _told_ you never to tap into the flat’s computer system again! Among other things, it is _illegal_.”

“And when has legality concerned you, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s disembodied voice was smug, and Sherlock wished they were in the same room. He could use with striking Mycroft right about now. “Besides, this is much easier than kidnapping you. And it’s far less fuss.”

“You could _call_ me.”

“Yes, because that has proved so effective in the past,” Mycroft said dryly. “I simply needed to inquire as to what your social calendar looks like for the next few months. Anthea wants to put our October and November lunches down on paper.”

Sherlock braced a hand on his hip and rubbed the back of his neck wearily with the other.

“You know very well what my _social calendar_ looks like,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.

“I do,” Mycroft said cheerfully, “but I thought you appreciated the illusion that you had some control over our get-togethers. I’ll have Anthea put us down for the first Monday in October and the third Thursday in November. How does that sound?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays are out of the question, you _know_ that,” Sherlock snapped.

“Yes, I do. I was also thinking that perhaps Inspector Hopkins could join us.”

Sherlock froze.

“Why?” he demanded. There was a pause.

“I thought you might appreciate having his company. You appear to find it enjoyable.”

“And I associate with him on my own time,” Sherlock said irritably. “There is no reason to subject him to our… _lunches_.”

He said the last word with extreme distaste. Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh.

“I am merely attempting to be as accommodating as possible, dear brother. I know how you detest having to meet with me on a regular basis, but I had hoped that time would wear away your disdain. That appears to not be the case, so I merely thought that having a friendly face at the table might make it a more pleasant experience for you.”

“Let me make one thing _very_ clear, Mycroft,” Sherlock said in a low voice, anger flaring in his stomach. “You are not to come near him. Is that understood? I don’t want him to be subjected to you any more than is strictly necessary. You aren’t to kidnap him, and you aren’t to invite him along to our lunches. If you _must_ see him so desperately, then you set up a meeting on _his_ terms.”

“And why should I listen to these _conditions_ , Sherlock?” Mycroft sounded eternally amused.

“Because you claim to care about me,” Sherlock said with a sneer. “And if that was the truth, you would heed this one request. I attend your lunches. I came to Christmas dinners while Mother was still alive. The least you can do in return is leave Inspector Hopkins alone.”

There was a tremendous pause.

“We’ll see, little brother,” Mycroft said, placating, and Sherlock’s blood boiled. Mycroft used endearments whenever he was about to do the very opposite of what Sherlock asked, as though that might soften the blow. “Good night.”

“Mycroft? _Mycroft!_ ”

But there was, of course, no answer.

\----

The murder of Jessica Thompson attracted attention of its own accord. Sherlock surmised that this was probably because there was a baby—a perceived innocent--involved.

“Because Jessica wasn’t enough of an innocent,” Hopkins muttered darkly to Sherlock during one of their lunches. “Bastards.”

The various tabloids and newspapers hadn’t made the connection between the four killings yet, but hers gained public interest once the hospital leaked the story of the abandoned baby, which forced the Yard to reveal that the infant’s mother was a murder victim. Sherlock generally didn’t pay much attention to the news, but he did listen with half an ear as the various media outlets began to cover Thompson’s murder.

And as the days wore on and the news picked up more steam, Sherlock realised that the Met wasn’t going to be able to keep quiet about the case for much longer. He had hoped to be able to give them some sort of lead prior to them having to hold a press conference, but as they approached mid-September there was nothing new that he could say about the murders.

There was only one thing that gave them any sort of edge in this whole situation. The killer didn’t yet know that they had made the connection between all the killings. And so when Sherlock woke one morning to a message from Hopkins-- _Giving a press conference today_ \--he bolted for the Yard.

“Where’s Hopkins?” he demanded of the first person on Hopkins’ team he came across.

“He has a press conference this afternoon,” Donovan answered without stopping. She was on her way down a corridor, and Sherlock darted after her.

“Yes, _obvious_.  Has it started yet?” he demanded.

“No, but he’s on his way. Hey!” Donovan tugged her arm from Sherlock’s sudden grip and stopped dead in the corridor. “Just what the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

“We need to find him before it starts,” Sherlock said urgently, “so _where_ would he be right now?”

Donovan stared at him for a long moment, seemingly taken aback by the vehemence in his voice.

“Come on,” she said finally, and led him to the conference room.

Hopkins was leaning against the long table, his arms crossed over his chest, staring unseeingly at the wall of victims. The lights were off in the room, and Sherlock knew that he wasn’t here for work. He felt a sudden pang at having to interrupt Hopkins’ contemplation and wondered, absurdly, when was the last time that Hopkins had a chance to rest.

_ Why does that matter? _

“Sir.” Donovan rapped gently on the doorframe, and Hopkins looked around.

“Hello,” he said quietly. “Yes?”

Sherlock stepped into the room.

“I need to speak to you about the press conference,” he said, and Hopkins straightened. “You can’t mention the connection between all the killings.”

Donovan gaped at him while Hopkins’ face turned to stone.

“You don’t want us telling the public that we’re dealing with a serial killer, you mean,” Hopkins said, his voice cold. “You’re mad.”

“You can’t be serious,” Donovan put in, aghast. “How are people going to be able to protect themselves? We _have_ to tell them what we’re dealing with!”

“It’s a risk,” Sherlock admitted. A crease formed between Hopkins’ brows.

“And a damned foolish one,” Hopkins said, irritated. “You’d better have a damn good reason, Sherlock, and don’t just say that you have a _feeling_ about this.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock snapped, bristling at the implication that he was allowing emotions to get in the way of reason. “If we mention the other victims – if we let him know that _we_ know about them – then he’s going to change his method of operation. He will disappear the moment we let on that we know about his previous killings, and we may never hear from him again. We can’t afford to scare him off.”

“And how can you be sure _that_ would scare him off?” Hopkins pressed. “He already knows that we’ve found and identified the fourth victim. Her face has been splashed all over the news for _days_.”

“But he isn’t aware that we know it’s his _fourth_ victim,” Sherlock pointed out. “For all he knows, we’re treating this as a single incident. A crime of passion, a domestic dispute gone wrong, however you want to spin it. He only knows as much as you tell the press, Hopkins. So _don’t_ talk about the crimes as serial murders. Don’t talk about them at _all_.”

“So what in God’s name do you want me to talk about instead?” Hopkins snapped. 

“Just focus on the fourth murder,” Sherlock said. “Everyone’s talking about Jessica Thompson anyway, and that’s what the press was expecting to hear today. Don’t drop this bombshell on them. Give them what they were looking for. Public ignorance will give us a slight edge in this whole situation, and we could do with a slight edge right about now.”

Hopkins stared at him for a long moment. 

“So it’s _we_ now, is it?” he asked finally. “Does this mean you’re going to help us with the _whole_ case? Not just with identifying the victims, but with everything?”

Sherlock didn’t answer right away.

“You need me,” he said finally. Hopkins’ gaze was unwavering.

“Always,” he said quietly. Sherlock gave a brisk nod.

“Yes. I’m in. For as long as you need me, I’ll be here.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Hopkins held his gaze, and while his expression remained hard, something softened behind his eyes. Sherlock had a feeling that he was struggling not to say something due to the fact that they weren’t alone, and that he was trying to convey it instead with his eyes.

And Sherlock couldn’t fully interpret the sudden tenderness in Hopkins’ gaze—or he was too frightened to even begin to give it a name—but he gave Hopkins a slight nod all the same. Finally, Hopkins broke eye contact with Sherlock and looked at Sally. 

“All right, Sally. We’re going to keep quiet about this for now.” Hopkins sighed. “Damn it all. Excuse me.”

Donovan and Sherlock parted to let him by, and Hopkins left the room.

Sherlock and Donovan retreated to her small office in order to watch the conference. Or, rather, Donovan went into her office and Sherlock followed without an invitation. She shot him an exasperated look but didn’t bother to comment on it. Donovan tended to be more lax about his blatant ignorance of social graces when there was a pressing case at hand.

She turned on the small television that was mounted in the corner. Hopkins was sitting at a long table before a room full of reporters, flanked by two of his sergeants and looking perfectly at ease. This was another area in which he and Lestrade differed--whereas Lestrade had always abhorred and sometimes bungled press conferences, Hopkins always fielded questions admirably. He saw advantages in reporters where Lestrade had only seen nuisances, and he had a way of working the press to his own advantage. And, when he had no desire to give the media more information than was necessary, he also had a way of giving a response that really didn’t answer the question at all, but it was so thorough that the reporter never realised until later.

“He looks ill,” Donovan commented as the press conference began. Sherlock nodded.

“He’s lost approximately seven pounds since he brought the case to me,” he said softly. “Donovan -”

“Hmm?” she said when he didn’t continue. She turned to look at him. “What is it?”

“Hopkins... This case. It bothers him.”

She snorted.

“Cases like this get to everybody,” she said. “I’d be worried if it wasn’t bothering him. To be honest... I’m glad to see that it’s getting to you, too.”

Sherlock refrained from commenting that it wasn’t the case getting to him so much as it was Hopkins’ reaction to it. He had learned over the years when it was wise to pick an argument with Donovan - and when it was most inadvisable.

“What does he need, Donovan?” he asked softly. “What can I - I mean, what can _we -_ do for him?”

Donovan blinked at him for a moment.

“You solve this, Holmes,” she said finally. “You _solve_ this. That’s the best thing you can do for him.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. He knew that, of course. He had known it for weeks, in fact. But the thought didn’t sit well with him, because there was always the chance - there was always the possibility -

“And if I can’t?” he asked quietly. He looked back at Hopkins, weary but determined before the microphone, and pretended not to feel Donovan’s gaze upon him.

“Well, look at that,” she murmured quietly. “You’re human after all.”

Sherlock curled his hand into a fist and bit the inside of his cheek. Beside him, Donovan shifted uncomfortably.

“Sorry,” she muttered, and then briefly pressed his shoulder. “If this doesn’t get solved... you be there for him. That’s all you _can_ do. You leave with the knowledge that you did all you could, given the circumstances, and you _be_ there for him.”

“And if that isn’t enough?”

Donovan sighed.

“Sometimes,” she said, “it just isn’t. And there’s nothing you can do about that.”

 

Sherlock waited for Hopkins in his office once the press conference concluded. Hopkins didn’t bother turning on the light when he came into the room, and he was little more than a slender silhouette framed by the doorway.

“Got something for me?” he asked wearily as he walked over to his desk and slumped into his chair. He propped his legs up on the desk and put his chin on his fist, peering at Sherlock in the darkness. Sherlock couldn’t see his eyes, of course, but he certainly felt Hopkins’ wary gaze.

“Just a warning,” Sherlock said. “Your killer not only made a mistake, but he _knows_ he made a mistake thanks to all of this news coverage. He knows now that he chose a woman who wasn’t as unknown as he’d hoped. If he’s trying to keep a low profile—which he almost certainly is—then he’s going to be meticulous about the next killing. And there _will_ be another killing, or at least an attempt. He’s going to be very careful not to slip up this next time.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hopkins sighed, tipped his head back against his chair, and tilted his face towards the ceiling. “Tell me something, Sherlock.”

“Hm.”

“Why the hands?”

Sherlock blinked at him slowly.

“I don’t understand,” he said finally.

“There’s a first,” Hopkins muttered bitterly. “Why does he paint their hands? Why not another part of their bodies? For that matter, what determines the hand he chooses to paint? Two of our victims had paint on the left hand, while the other two had that same streak on their right. There are some cultures, I know, that believe the left hand should only be used for dirty or undesirable tasks. Is he trying to tell us something? Are some of his victims – I don’t know, more _pure_ than others?”

Sherlock let Hopkins talk himself into silence.

“I don’t know,” he said at last, “but I don’t think that’s the case.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, the idea tugging unpleasantly at the back of his mind, “I don’t think this is about revenge, or about making a point. I think – I think that these crimes are an outlet for your killer. This is something that he _needs_. It’s not about the fun for him, nor is about righting what seems to be a wrong, in his mind. It’s about fulfilling a necessity in much the same way we breathe and eat. He needs this, and so he’s going about it the most acceptable way possible. He doesn’t want to get caught, and he doesn’t want to be stopped. He targets women who won’t be missed; who will be leaving no one behind.”

“Acceptable,” Hopkins repeated darkly.

“Yes.”

“No one’s death is acceptable,” Hopkins snapped at him. “No one is less deserving of life than another. Don’t ever say that in front of me again, Sherlock, or I swear on all that is holy that I will _end_ you.”

“I didn’t say that it was _my_ viewpoint,” Sherlock pointed out calmly. While he didn’t actually agree with Hopkins there, he also knew better than to argue the point. Hopkins’ continued friendship meant more to him than something as trivial as that. “I’m merely trying to get you to understand where the killer may be coming from.”

“You make it sound as though he is someone who deserves our pity.” Hopkins’ voice was dangerously low, and he had gone quite still. Sherlock shook his head.

“No.” He spoke softly, but in the quiet of the office it sounded like a shout. “No, of course not. Not at all. But I _do_ believe that he is someone we must try to understand if we have any hope of identifying him, let alone catching him and putting a stop to his crimes.”

“I don’t want to _understand_ this,” Hopkins hissed. “I don’t want to understand _him_.”

“And now you’re just being bullheaded.” Sherlock got to his feet. Hopkins didn’t move.

“Look who’s talking,” he snapped. Sherlock shook his head, too weary to deal with a fight at the moment.

“I’m going to the conference room,” he said quietly, calmly, “and I’m going to take your notes home. Help me if you wish, or don’t help. It’s all much the same to me. But stop telling yourself that willful ignorance is the way to go about this case. You must face the truth, even if it’s unsavory, or this will never get solved. Good night.”

Hopkins didn’t follow him.

\----

Sherlock returned home from the Yard with copies of every piece of information Hopkins possessed about the case.

He removed the notes from his now-solved embezzlement case from the wall over the mantel and replaced them with everything he had copied from the conference room and the files in Hopkins’ office. Photographs of the victims and of the crime scenes, copies of handwritten notes, copies of official reports--all of these he hung on the wall, stretching from the kitchen to the window, the display at least twice the size of the one at the Yard and a good deal more chaotic.

But Sherlock was much like Lestrade in that manner, able to make order from chaos, and what seemed erratic to some at first glance made perfect sense to him.

The first victim had been found in January of a bitter year, but she had sported no signs of frostbite on her body, or anything else that might have indicated that she lived a life that was devoid of shelter. Her nails were neat but not looked after, and the ends of her hair suggested that she had not had it cut in some time, but it was also far from neglected. She was perhaps pressed for money, then, but not impoverished.

There were a few people who slipped off the grid every year. This happened particularly to those who moved without informing the government, or who changed their names after a marriage, or who failed to immediately update their database photographs every three years, as was required. They never disappeared for long, of course. Eventually the lapses were corrected, as it wasn’t possible to obtain housing or a job without being on the national registry, but it was possible for a person to slide off the grid for a few weeks or months without anyone making a fuss. 

And if someone were to _also_ have been abducted during their time off the grid, it would make sense that the public database didn’t have their records now. Old database photographs were purged every few years to make room for the new ones; sometimes, there wasn’t one available to replace the old. And as a murder victim had no more need for housing or a job, the fact that they disappeared from the registry usually went unnoticed.

It was an incredibly inefficient system.

But sometimes people appeared back on the grid without their knowledge. Families of the deceased sometimes submitted their photographs to national registry every time it was purged so that their loved one could “live on,” as it were. Sherlock never understood that practice. More often, though, people had a tendency to appear back in the national registry if they were part of a pending court case, and their photographs were among the files submitted for said cases.

It was a long shot, but it was entirely possible that someone had taken the victims’ disappearances as evidence of them skipping out on legal obligations rather than genuine disappearances. And if no one had thought to check the grid beyond that initial scan of the first victim’s face…

Sherlock gathered every photograph he had of the first victim and scanned them all into his computer interface. The quality was subpar, as these were copies of copies that had then been input into a computer, but it would be enough if there was a match to find.

It took fifteen minutes, which was an eternity in this age of computers and databases. But when the computer interface finally beeped, the upswing of the tone told Sherlock that a match had been found.

Oh, Hopkins was going to be _furious_ that he hadn’t thought to run the victim through the national registry again.

Sherlock stared for some time at the face of the woman the computer was showing him. She had pink-tinged cheeks and pale red lips, and her hair had been swept off her shoulders and into a loose ponytail. He had always found it both odd and fascinating, the comparison between pictures of people while they had been living and photographs of them after they had been murdered. The picture of the woman that was on the computer interface was a match to the first victim, but Sherlock wouldn’t have realised that from an initial glance. It was only when the computer analysis popped up as text laid over the victim’s living picture that he could see why it was indeed a match.

“Interface,” Sherlock said quietly, “when was this photograph submitted to the national registry?”

_ Photograph was submitted on 13 July 2026. _

“Six months after her death,” Sherlock muttered to himself. Of course no one had thought to check again. “And why was this photograph submitted to the database?”

_ The subject had not paid rent for six months and the subject’s landlady has been seeking compensation ever since.  _

“And this photograph was part of the case file?” Sherlock asked.

_ That is correct. _

Sherlock nodded to himself. “Interface, bring up all relevant information regarding this woman.”

_ You do not have clearance to view this information,  _ the computer interface chirped, _as this case is still pending and has not reached a resolution._

“And it won’t,” Sherlock muttered to himself.

_ Unable to process query _ , the interface told him. Sherlock cursed inwardly, and then dredged up from some small corner of his memory the codes that Hopkins used to gain access to sensitive information.

“Interface, identify codes one-one-two-eight, Alpha-Echo-Bravo,” Sherlock tried, and the computer beeped.

_ Codes accepted. Now accessing all information regarding this individual. _

Sherlock printed out all the relevant information regarding the first victim, and then scanned the other two victims into the national registry’s database on a whim. The third one came back with no matches. The second one did, too, but it took nearly twenty minutes for the computer to reach that conclusion. Prior to that, the computer kept coming up with tentative matches and then ultimately rejecting them.

“Make up your mind,” Sherlock muttered when the interface showed him the same woman’s face for the third time, and then said _Error. Negative Match._ It tried again, and for a fourth time brought up the same woman’s face before rejecting it.

Sherlock paused, a thought occurring to him. Maybe the computer _had_ made up its mind.

The woman the computer kept showing him and then rejecting was still alive, and a good deal older than the second victim. Her shoulder-length dark hair was wavy and threatening to frizz, but her eyes –

\- Her eyes were as round and blue as the sightless ones that stared out of the second victim’s face.

“Interface,” Sherlock said, staring at his photograph of the second woman, “bring up all the siblings and cousins of the woman on the screen—living, deceased, or missing. _Now_.”

Sherlock took a seat as the information started to pour across the screen. He read the text and absorbed the various images, and it quickly became clear to him that victim number two was a relative of the various people that popped up on the screen. He ordered the computer to start sifting through court records and police reports that had been filed against or by any of the members of this particular family, and hoped that the identity of the second victim would be contained somewhere in them. 

The search was going to take an hour, according to the interface, and Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck wearily. He had other things he could be working on in the meantime, but something about this whole thing kept nagging at the back of his mind. Looking at the pictures of the victims now only served to drive home the point that the killer didn’t particularly care about appearances. There was nothing that all three of these women shared, and so it couldn’t be said that women of a certain age or a certain stature would be potential targets. _Any_ woman could be a target, so long as it was difficult or impossible to identify her. 

But why only women?

“Unless it’s not,” Sherlock muttered quietly to himself. “It’s not just women.”

And the implications of that were staggering.

** \---- **

Sherlock sought out Hopkins in his office first thing the next morning.

“Cheryl Landers,” Sherlock said, striding into the room and kicking the door shut behind him, “and Katherine Jones.”

Hopkins had only just got into the Yard. He had yet to even sit down, and was still shrugging out of his coat when Sherlock came into the room. Hopkins stared at him blankly for a minute.

“Sorry, I don’t follow,” he said flatly as he hung up his coat. Sherlock actually admired that about Hopkins. Too often, people in his presence pretended to follow his line of reasoning, or tried to make pig-headed deductions of their own in order to make it seem as though they could keep up with him. Hopkins freely admitted his ignorance when necessary, and Sherlock appreciated that.

“The first two victims,” Sherlock said. He set his file down on Hopkins’ desk and opened it, spreading out the sheets of information he had carefully compiled. “Victim number one is Cheryl Landers. She had no family and no close friends, and she lived alone prior to her disappearance. She worked in a shop, and seemingly had no interpersonal relationships that she maintained. The national registry was purged of outdated photographs in December 2025, and she hadn’t submitted a new one yet by the time she disappeared a month later—hence the killer believing that she was an unknown.”

“Her employer didn’t notice she was missing?” Hopkins asked, picking up the photograph of Landers that Sherlock had obtained from the landlady’s submission to the database.

“I am certain he did, but he obviously didn’t think anything of it. Landers was replaced about a week after she disappeared. Her landlady rented out her flat six months later and filed a case against Landers for abandoning her obligations as tenant. No one bothered to report her disappearance, probably because they didn’t stop and think it might have been against her will.”

“How did you figure out it was her?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell Hopkins about running Landers’ photograph through the national registry again, but what came out was, “Homeless network.”

He moved on quickly to the second victim.

“This one is most likely a girl named Katherine Jones,” he said. “She was an emancipated teen at the time of her disappearance, so while she had family, none of them noticed she had gone missing because they weren’t in contact. Her family members are all in the national registry, so the computer was able to make a tentative match based on structural similarities in their faces, but Katherine doesn’t appear anywhere in the registry, which is probably why your killer targeted her. I submitted the family name to the court cases database and found an old case that the family had been involved in. It mentioned the emancipation of a young woman named Katherine—she’s about the right age of your second victim. If you run her DNA against that of one of the relatives, I’m certain you’ll find a match.”

Hopkins was clearly overwhelmed, and he kept looking at the pictures as though he couldn’t quite believe they were real.

“Thank you,” he said thickly. “I - Jesus, Sherlock, this is incredible. I wish I’d thought -”

“If you had brought me in earlier, these women would still be dead,” Sherlock said firmly. “I haven’t made any sense of this case, Hopkins. I just... I’m just giving you the names. As you asked.”

“Thank you,” Hopkins said again. “And if you manage to figure anything out about the third victim…”

“I’ll keep working on it,” Sherlock promised. He knew already it was hopeless, though. He had made every deduction about her that he could – homeless, between twenty and thirty, never gave birth, suffered from chronic headaches – but none of that was helpful in identifying her, and her picture didn’t bring up even a close match in the database.

But the look of relief and deep gratitude on Hopkins’ face prevented him from voicing his doubts.

“One last thing,” Sherlock said. “I would suggest keeping quiet about the names of the first two victims. Inform the living relatives if you must, but I think it would be best if we minimized the possibility of someone leaking it to the public—and, by extension, the killer—that we know their names. We want to lure him into a false sense of security. I don’t want him to be on his guard just yet. The more comfortable he is that he’s getting away with these crimes, the more likely it is that he’ll slip up and make another mistake.”

“And if we reveal the names to the public, the killer’s going to figure out that we’re working on three of his four crimes. He’ll figure out that we’ve made a connection between all of the victims.” Hopkins sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. We’re going to have to keep as quiet about this for as possible for now. Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned to leave, but something stopped him on the threshold. He couldn’t give Hopkins unsubstantiated information, he couldn’t provide him with mere _speculation_ , but the idea that had come to him last night had been plaguing him ever since.

“There’s actually one other thing,” he said, turning slowly. Hopkins cocked his head and frowned.

“What?”

Sherlock drew a breath. “Whenever we talk about the case, you keep saying _women_. He’s abducting women, he’s killing women. Why?”

Hopkins looked at him as though he’d gone mad.

“Er... yeah, I have. All the victims have been female.”

“That we know of.” Sherlock hesitated, watching the colour bleed from Hopkins’ face. “The victims _that we know of_ have been female.”

Hopkins stared at him. 

“What have you found?” he asked in a low, apprehensive voice.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, and the admission was bitter on his tongue. “I have no evidence to back up this theory, which is irritating, but I can’t ignore the idea, either. As I was trying to identify the other three victims, I got to thinking… what if it’s not unknown women that your killer cares about, but unknown _people?_ If his only criteria for abducting them is that they be unknown and off-the-grid, then who are we to say that he only targets women?”

“The team that made the connection between the first three victims already checked the unsolved crimes database,” Hopkins said, although he looked uneasy.

“Don’t assume that they checked the database very thoroughly. And they may have only been looking for female victims, given the fact that the bodies they had to work with were female,” Sherlock said. “Have your team look through it again. If our killer is attacking people regardless of gender… Well, that gives this whole case a very different look.”

Hopkins scrubbed a hand through his hair and then pushed the intercom button on his desk.

“Sir?” Donovan answered.

“A word, please, Sergeant. My office,” he said briskly. A moment later, Donovan entered the room. She spared Sherlock a quick nod and then looked expectantly at Hopkins. “I want you to have someone go back through the unsolved crimes database. Look for other victims who might have been found with paint on their hands.”

“It’s been done already, sir,” Donovan pointed out.

“I know,” Hopkins sighed. “It’s going to be tedious, but I want the team to go back through it and search through every crime that even remotely matches this one, regardless of whether the database filter says that the victims were found with paint on their hands. The paint might not have been deemed important enough to enter into the database, so it won’t show up in a search. Filter first by victims who were found strangled. Then look for the other hallmarks of this crime – sexual assault, dumped somewhere in London, et cetera. Look at the crime scene photographs for every victim that applies to. The grey paint might not have been put in the notes, but it would still show up in pictures.”

Donovan nodded, and was just about to leave the room when Hopkins stopped her again.

“No. Don’t just check the unsolved crimes database,” he said quietly. “Go through the solved crimes one as well.”

Donovan frowned, and Sherlock felt his eyes widen once he realised what Hopkins was getting at. Interesting. He hadn’t thought of that, and he should have.

“Sir?”

“I want the solved crimes database checked on the off-chance that someone else got convicted for a crime we didn’t know was part of a larger string of murders,” Hopkins said. “I hope I’m wrong, but at this point, we can’t afford to rule anything out.”

“This is going to take time, and a lot of it,” Donovan cautioned. Hopkins’ lips thinned.

“I don’t see that we have any other choice,” he said. “Anytime anyone has a free moment, have them start going through the databases. And keep me apprised.”

Donovan gave a brisk, “Yes, sir,” and exited the office.

Hopkins sat down at his desk and pinched his nose, sighing deeply.

“Right,” he said after a moment. “Okay, then.”

He looked up, fixing Sherlock with a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Back to work,” he said grimly. “Talk to you later?”

“Call me as soon as you have anything,” Sherlock said.

“I always do.”

He glanced back at Hopkins as he left the office, and something twisted in his chest at the sight that greeted him. Hopkins gave a deep sigh and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, obviously shaken by what at this point was only mere speculation. But in this instance, Sherlock could at least understand his unease.

If he was right—and for once, Sherlock hoped that wasn’t the case—then they could very well soon be dealing with countless victims.

And now almost anyone could be a potential target. 


	5. Chapter 5

September this year as was hot and oppressive as July and August had been, which was irritating at first and downright maddening as the month wore on with no relief in sight. Sherlock began to regret not taking John and Lestrade up on their offer of an escape. Their seaside home would have been a welcome break from London’s heat, and their presence would have been a salve for the tedious days when Hopkins was busy and no new cases loomed on the horizon.

But no. Sherlock couldn’t leave, not just yet. Hopkins needed him.

There was no news for Hopkins to report during their twice-weekly lunches. His team was slowly combing through the various crime databases, with no sign yet of further victims. And no new victims had been kidnapped, which offered them a slight respite, but it also meant that they had no new information to go on.

“Stuck like an ox in the mud,” Hopkins groused to Sherlock one afternoon between bites of rice. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the odd phrase, but found that he couldn’t disagree.

The third victim continued to go unnamed. Eventually, Sherlock had to concede that none of his attempts to identify her had proved fruitful, and that it was time to call in some outside assistance.

He didn’t know why he was so reluctant to rely on his homeless network. Back in the early days, he would have utilized them the moment he ran into a dead end. Nowadays, though, he would only bring them in on a case as a last resort.

Maybe, he reflected as he cut down an alley, that was because years ago he would only utilize the homeless network in order to speed up a case. He didn’t actually need to rely on them, as he always could have reached the answer without their help. It was only a matter of time.

Now, however, it just served to prove that he was slowing down. There were things he couldn’t accomplish anymore, and he didn’t like to be reminded of that fact.

Sherlock approached his target—a man he knew only as “Bo”—and pulled the picture of the third victim out of his breast pocket. He wrapped some money around it and pushed it into Bo’s hands.

“There’s more,” he said quietly, “if you can get me any information about that woman.”

He left just as abruptly, without waiting for a response, and heard Bo hurry away in the opposite direction.

\----

Serial murders just didn’t happen in London.

Murders themselves were rare enough. Hopkins and his team spent more time investigating attempted murders and incidents of manslaughter than actual deaths. There hadn’t been a case of serial murders, in fact, since 2010, and even that had been engineered by an outside force. This, a serial killer acting of his own accord - this was something entirely new, and no one knew how to deal with it.

But Sherlock didn’t care about them. His only concern, his only  _thought_ , was for Hopkins, and for the fact that every day he looked more and more as though he had taken the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“I’m probably not going to be around for lunch next Tuesday,” Hopkins said apologetically one Thursday night. Sherlock clamped his phone between shoulder and ear so that he could add some sugar to his tea.

“Oh? Where will you be?”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a beat, and then Hopkins answered, quietly, “A cemetery.”

Sherlock blinked, and then frowned. He couldn’t recall Hopkins having mentioned a death in the family, and there had been nothing in their conversations these past few days that would have led Sherlock to deduce that something had occurred. Tea forgotten, he brought a hand to the phone and straightened. He wondered what he’d missed.

“I didn’t realise,” he said finally.

“Not for what you’re thinking,” Hopkins said. “It’s the third victim. Her remains have been sitting in that damn morgue for months and, well… I’m having her buried. I’m not sure what time, exactly, but it’ll be in the middle of the day. It depends on when someone gets back to me about availability.”

“That’s not your job, Stanley.”

“Someone needs to do it.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Yes,” and now Hopkins’ voice had a hard edge to it, “they do. I can’t find her killer and I can’t even give her a damn _name_ , but I can do this.” He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, softly, “No one misses her. No one even remembers that she existed. But no one is so insignificant that they don’t even deserve someone to bury them.”

“Everyone is insignificant,” Sherlock pointed out. Hopkins blew out a frustrated breath over the phone.

“I can’t talk to you about this right now, I really can’t,” he said shortly, and his voice was strained. “Look, I’ll be in touch when we need you again.”

He rang off without waiting for a reply.

\----

Someone had left flowers on Victor’s grave.

Sherlock inspected the bouquet with mild curiosity. Every other grave in this portion of the cemetery had the same bright bouquet resting near it; someone had obviously been feeling generous. Sherlock couldn’t understand the need to leave flowers for a deceased loved one, let alone doing it for deceased strangers.

“Lilies,” he said finally, setting the flowers aside. “Not the most original choice. At least Molly has the sense to bring you rare flowers—you’d at least have found them interesting.”

A bee buzzed around his head and then went to investigate the lilies. Sherlock watched it for a moment.

“We were going to have bees,” he said quietly. “Bees and the cottage. It would have been wonderful, Vic. You were so excited. Hell, so was I.”

He shook his head, and returned his gaze to Victor’s headstone.

“We’ve identified three of the victims,” he said. “It hasn’t brought them any closer to identifying a suspect, however. And I’ve done all I can for them. I don’t take cases like this.”

_ And yet _ .

“And yet,” he went on, softly, “I couldn’t walk away from this. I wanted to – hell, I still do. I wish I could run like hell from this one. But Hopkins needs my help. He _needs_ me.”

_ And I need him _ .

A hot rush of guilt flooded his stomach at the thought, and Sherlock swallowed. He had never thought he could ever need anyone the way he’d needed Victor, and the idea was almost painful to contemplate. And yet he also couldn’t ignore the fact that the idea that he could lose Hopkins’ friendship over this seemingly inconsequential argument was incredibly unsettling. He had never before considered that Hopkins might not always be a part of his life.

“He’s furious, Vic,” he muttered. “My fault, of course. I cocked it up. He’s having the third victim buried—we never managed to figure out her name. He’s having her buried properly, regardless. He’s paid for it and everything, and I don’t understand – I don’t get why he needs this.”

He could just imagine Victor’s incredulity.  _And you_ told _him that?_

“Are you surprised?” he said dryly. “Yes, I told him. He hasn’t spoken to me since.”

It was only now that they _weren’t_ talking that Sherlock realised that he and Hopkins hadn’t gone more than a couple of days without speaking to one another in – well, in at least the past three years now. Perhaps even longer. They were now going on four days without speaking, and Sherlock missed it.

“This is absurd,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. “This is foolish. What in God’s name do I expect you to do about it? Christ.”

_ Talk to Stanley _ , John would have said. Talking – his solution for every problem. But Victor had always been miles more practical.

_ If he’s put up with you for this long and hasn’t been chased away, you’ve haven’t got anything to worry about. He knows what you’re like. He’ll be back.  _

“John would tell me to talk, and your stellar advice is to wait,” Sherlock said dryly. “And I was never very good at listening to either of you, was I?”

He pushed himself to his feet with a quiet groan.

“Take care, old friend,” he murmured to the headstone. “Sleep well.”

\-----

Hopkins lived on a nondescript street in a nondescript part of London. His home was one of about two dozen identical white houses that lined both sides of the street. The doors and shutters on every house were painted the same shade of dusty red, and brass numbers and knockers were displayed on every door. Sherlock felt bored just looking at this street. Everything about it was painfully ordinary; it was almost agonizing.

Hopkins had only lived on this street for the past five years, as he and David had sold their shared home after the divorce and gone their separate ways. At the time, Sherlock had briefly considered offering Hopkins John’s old room, but he had never managed to properly formulate the question.

_ You got scared _ , the John-voice in the back of his mind said flatly. Sherlock shook his head to be rid of the thought. Hopkins was the only person on the planet he would consider living with, and John’s room had thus been unoccupied ever since.

Sherlock dug his hands into his pockets as he walked up the path to Hopkins’ house, fishing for his lock-picking tools. There was a key hidden behind the mezuzah on Hopkins’ doorframe, that he knew, but he had never bothered to use it. Hopkins changed his locks every few months due to Sherlock’s constant break-ins, and Sherlock enjoyed the challenge of trying to figure a new one out. 

This time, however, the door swung open before Sherlock had managed to finish picking the lock, and he came face-to-face with a decidedly irritated Hopkins. 

“My neighbor called,” he said flatly. “She said that a strange man was breaking into my house.”

“She was right on all three counts,” Sherlock said, brushing past Hopkins and into the foyer without an invitation. “You should consider adding her to the team. She sounds very observant.”

Normally, that remark would at least have resulted in a dry chuckle from Hopkins. This time, however, he simply gave a weak snort and shut the door. 

“Come on, then,” he said, moving into the kitchen. “You went through all the trouble to come here. What do you want?”

Hopkins made himself a cup of coffee, but didn’t offer Sherlock one. That alone spoke to his mood, and Sherlock flinched inwardly. He wasn’t used to being unwelcome in Hopkins’ presence, and it stung. 

“Hopkins, I –” But he had never been very good with words. Actions had always suited him better, and so he asked instead, “Did you bury her? The third victim.”

Hopkins considered him for a moment, and then gave a slow nod. 

“Yes, just yesterday,” he said quietly. “They managed to fit her in a day early. Why?”

_ Damn _ . Sherlock knew from experience that gestures tended to mean more than words to most people, and he had realised that what he needed to make his regret known was to accompany Hopkins to the burial. He saw no purpose in it, but it meant something to Hopkins, and that was really all he needed.

“I thought I might –” He stopped again, unsure of how to convey his intentions and make them sound genuine. “Damn it, Stanley, during our phone conversation last week, I didn’t mean… I didn’t intend to imply that you were a fool or that your actions were worthless, or – or whatever else you might have taken away from the conversation. I just don’t understand these things, and you’re already so invested in this particular case that I didn’t see how burying the third victim could have been good for you. But just because I don’t understand it doesn’t mean I think less of you for it, and I know you’re angry with me because you haven’t spoken to me in days, and I just want – I’d like that to stop. Please.”

Hopkins stared at him blankly for a long minute, and Sherlock felt a flush creep up his neck. Damn it, not only must that have been rambling and incoherent, but he must have missed the point entirely _again_ –

“You know,” Hopkins said abruptly, interrupting his bout of self-pity, “you really need to stop calling me Stanley. It’s weird.”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“It’s your name,” he said slowly. 

“Not to you, it isn’t,” Hopkins pointed out. He shook his head and let out a huff of disbelieving laughter. “Look at you. Coming over here to _apologize_ and calling me by my first name. Who is this new Sherlock Holmes and what have you done with the old one?”

Hopkins clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got the rest of the night off. Fancy a pint?”

“I –” Sherlock stared at him, and then he said flatly, “I’m confused.”

Hopkins snorted.

“You’re terrible at giving apologies, and I’m bad at accepting them. I appreciate you coming over, but what’s past is past, Sherlock. It’s fine.” Hopkins reached for his mobile and then grabbed his keys. 

“Besides,” he added as they left the house and started down the pavement towards the nearest pub, “I’ve missed talking to you, too.”

\----

Hopkins came over one sunny day near the end of September to watch football, something that he did once or twice a month. Sherlock had no interest in the sport and never had, but his presence wasn’t required. They had long ago become accustomed to doing as they pleased while in one another’s company.

“How’s the experiment?” Hopkins asked as he dropped his keys on the kitchen table. He brushed past Sherlock and went straight for the fridge.

“Far beyond your comprehension,” Sherlock said shortly.

Hopkins pulled out a beer and used the counter and the palm of his hand to pop the top off the bottle. He took a long swig of the drink, foregoing a glass. How he drank his beer was usually indicative of his mood. The fewer steps he took between obtaining one and drinking it, the more difficult his day had been. This was not promising.

“I was at the Yard today,” he said finally.

“On your day off?” Sherlock asked absently. He looked up from his microscope long enough to scribble down a calculation in his notebook and push his reading glasses up his nose. 

“Very observant of you.”

“Anything new?”

“Nothing worth reporting at this point.”

Hopkins’ voice was heavy and resigned. Sherlock glanced at him. His shirt was rumpled and his hair was mussed, and there was a smudge of ink on the side of his nose that was as black as the pools under his eyes.

“You look like hell.”

Hopkins snorted. “Thanks.”

Sherlock nodded to the main room.

“Go on. I’ll join you in a minute.”

_ A minute _ turned out to be an hour, and when Sherlock next looked up from his experiment, Hopkins was half-asleep and sprawled across most of the sofa. He set aside his pen and tugged off his glasses before going into the other room.

“Budge up,” Sherlock said, touching Hopkins’ leg with his foot, and Hopkins obliged with a grunt. He propped his legs on the low table instead and reached for his beer--his second, though Sherlock hadn’t noticed him finish off the first one.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked. The match had long since ended, and a programme he didn’t recognise had taken its place.

“Fine,” Hopkins said after a pause, as though he had needed to think about the answer. Sherlock plucked the bottle from his hands and took a long swallow.

“Try again.”

Hopkins snatched his beer back and glared at Sherlock.

“Don’t you go all therapist on me, Holmes. Not when there’s enough in your head to keep a psychiatrist happy for _years.”_ Hopkins drank in contemplation for a long moment while Sherlock tried to make sense of the television programme. And then he said, softly, “I’m getting tired of this shit, that’s all.”

“With the case?”

Hopkins sighed. “With everything. _Christ._ I’m not cut out for this, Sherlock. I don’t think I ever was.”

“Don’t be a fool, of course you are,” Sherlock said harshly. “If you were anything less than the best I would have pegged you for an idiot within five minutes of meeting you and subsequently had nothing to do with you.”

Hopkins gave a wry smile.

“Thanks,” he said, “I think.”

Sherlock huffed.

“It’s simply the truth,” he said brusquely. “I don’t have time for people who refuse to acknowledge or _use_ their own worthiness. It gets very tiring. You are brilliant. You were absolutely meant for this job.”

“I appreciate that.” Hopkins took another swallow of beer, his eyes drifting back to the television. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. If I can survive this case, I can survive anything. Oh, you stupid woman, you’d known him six months; of _course_ it wasn’t going to last.”

It took Sherlock half a minute to piece Hopkins’ thought process together, and eventually realised that his final comment had been directed at the television. There was a woman being interviewed on a news programme, and going by the clip in her hair and her nails, Hopkins was right--her husband had left her after a whirlwind courtship and marriage that had lasted less than six months.

“Made the same mistake I did,” Hopkins muttered darkly to his bottle. Sherlock realised then that he should have seen this coming. Hopkins had a tendency to become more melancholy than was normal around the High Holy Days, and they were fast approaching. “Next time, I’d wait longer.”

“You would marry again?” Sherlock asked in some surprise. He’d been intending to steer the conversation elsewhere in an attempt to cheer Hopkins up, but now he was intrigued despite himself.

“Why?” Hopkins deflected the question with a smirk. “You asking, old man?”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to snort.

“If I was, I wouldn’t say it in so many words.”

“I don’t know.” Hopkins gave a shrug. “Maybe. I’m not against the idea. But at the same time, it’s not really something that I need right now. I’ve got my job, got my team, got the most infuriating best friend in the world...”

“Ha, ha.”

“Who said I was talking about you?”

“Sorry, I didn’t realise you meant Checkers.”

Hopkins gave a bark of laughter and held out his bottle. Sherlock took another swallow before handing it back to him. They lapsed into silence for a time and watched the television until the news programmes began to cycle and repeat. Hopkins dug a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and held it out to Sherlock, who hesitated before taking one. He rarely indulged anymore, and it was always with Hopkins.

He would have to remember to air out the flat later, before Alice cottoned on.

“Why _did_ you get married?” Sherlock asked at length.

Hopkins blew out a long stream of smoke, was quiet for a while, and then shrugged.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I loved him.” He rolled the cigarette between his fingers before taking another draw on it. “Still do. We keep in touch.”

“It is fully possible to love without marriage.”

Hopkins snorted.

“Don’t I know it.” He smoked for a little while longer, finishing off the cigarette and grinding it out in the nearby ashtray. “I wanted to. I don’t know why, it just felt right. I was his husband and he was mine and it was... good.”

He cast a tentative sidelong glance at Sherlock, and then returned his gaze to the television.

“Why didn’t you marry Victor?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“It was a different time. And I didn’t see much use then for sentiment, or for grand declarations.”

“Do you think you might have, one day?”

“Had he lived, you mean?” Sherlock asked bluntly, and Hopkins grimaced, but nodded. He took a long draw on his nearly-forgotten cigarette, and sighed the smoke out through his nose. And then he said, quietly, “Yes. I would have.”

Sherlock finished off his cigarette. Hopkins was unnervingly quiet.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered finally. “Truly.”

Sherlock nodded absently.

“If you don’t mind, Hopkins,” he said finally, “I’d rather not talk about this anymore.”

He stood, and then offered Hopkins a hand up. He knew that Hopkins was reluctant to leave, because the conclusion of the evening meant that nothing stood now between him and returning to work the next day.

“Will you be all right?” he asked as Hopkins reached for his coat and grabbed his keys.

“It’s only a short drive.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Hopkins considered him for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “I really don’t, Sherlock. I’ve never had a case like this.”

“If you need anything…”

“Yeah.” Hopkins squeezed his shoulder. “Good night, Sherlock.”

\----

Alice Hudson was a resourceful woman.

Sometimes, a little _too_ resourceful.

“It’s _fine_ , Sherlock,” she scolded impatiently while he prodded at the latch on her kitchen window. “It stays shut!”

“Alice, you’ve got this held together with fishing wire and Sellotape,” Sherlock scolded. She leveled a look at him.

“Yes, I do,” she said, rather smugly. “And I dare you to try to break in.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went around to the side of the building. Twenty minutes later, he finally slid through the window and into her kitchen. Alice was sitting at the table, a pipe across her knees and Checkers at her feet. He barked happily when he realised it was Sherlock who had come into the room and ran circles around his feet.

“I think that’s a new record for you,” Alice said with a smirk. “Maybe even a new record overall. Longest lock-pick in the history of burglaries.”

Sherlock sighed.

“I’m going out to the shops,” he said in exasperation, brushing dust off his shirt, “and I’m coming back with a new latch. Stay here.”

He found the correct type of latch at a shop two streets away. It was a shop he frequented whenever he was forced to purchase his own food—which was more often than he’d had to do when John and Lestrade were around, granted, but Alice indulged him in ways her aunt never would. He was forced to go out on his own maybe once every two weeks.

“No milk this time, Mr Holmes?” the aged shopkeeper asked amiably whilst Sherlock prepared to pay. Sherlock, who had never seen the point of small talk, resisted an eye roll. It was helpful to keep certain members of society in his favour, especially ones who were in a position to observe the behavior of other people on a daily basis. “Your fellow hasn’t been by recently?”

“He’s not my fellow,” Sherlock said absently. “And no, he hasn’t. Case.”

“He works too hard, that one,” the shopkeeper said sadly.

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed noncommittally. His eyes fell on a packet of cigarettes, and he realised that the stash he kept for Hopkins in the flat must have run out, hence Hopkins bringing his own last week. He indicated the package wordlessly, and the shopkeeper added it to his purchase.

Sherlock cut down an alley on his way back to Baker Street. A rustling noise just behind him was the first clue that someone else was there; the hand that grabbed his elbow was the second, and Sherlock reacted without thinking.

“Mr Holmes,” the man gasped around the hand that Sherlock had pinned to his throat, “it’s _me_.”

“Hell,” Sherlock whispered, dropping his hands. Bo slumped forward, leaning against the wall for support while he gasped for breath. “You know better.”

“Fuckin’ quick, you are,” the younger man said with a bit of awe. “You know, for an old –”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Sherlock sighed wearily. “What do you have for me?”

“Nothing,” Bo said regretfully. He handed over the photograph of the third victim that Sherlock had given him.

Sherlock blinked at him.

“You must have _something,”_ he said incredulously. Bo shook his head.

“Sorry, Mr Holmes, but no. We don’t have a clue who that might be, and we can’t find anyone who does. Just thought you ought to know.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, heart sinking. That had been his last resort, and it had always come through for him before.

“Thanks,” he muttered finally. He dug through his pockets for his change from the shop and pushed it into Bo’s hands. Bo gave him a grateful nod and disappeared back down the alley.

Sherlock looked again at the picture before tucking it away in his breast pocket and resuming his walk back to Baker Street.

Today marked the start of Rosh Hashanah, and Hopkins had left earlier that morning for his parents’ house. As a nonbeliever born to a Jewish woman and her agnostic husband, this was the sole religious observance Hopkins ever marked (albeit loosely). It was also the only time during the year that he took a holiday, and Sherlock was loath to bother him. But he knew that Hopkins would appreciate even less Sherlock keeping quiet about the information for the ten days before he was due to return to London.

“ _Shanah Tovah,_ Sherlock,” Hopkins greeted when Sherlock called him that night. He sounded calm; relaxed by both drink and the break from London. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Sherlock said, “but I’m afraid I have news.”

“I figured,” Hopkins said in quiet resignation. “It’s all right. What’s going on?”

Sherlock explained about his contact within the homeless network, and how they had been unable to shed any light on the identity of the third victim.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Hopkins said, though he did sound disappointed. Sherlock heard ice cubes clink over the line, and then it sounded as though Hopkins had taken a deep swallow of his drink. He sighed. “Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate the effort. Has anything else happened?”

“No,” Sherlock told him. “No, there’s nothing else. It appears as though the press is still focusing solely on Jessica Thompson. They haven’t yet figured out about the preceding three murders. And your team has yet to find any other victims in the crime databases, male or female. So we have that going for us, whatever small comfort that may be.”

“I’ll take what I can get, at this point,” Hopkins said dryly. 

“How has your holiday been?”

“So far? Uneventful. My mother keeps trying to shove food down my throat, and Dad’s got it in his head that he’s going to introduce me to the son of one of his co-workers. He’s desperate for another son-in-law.” Hopkins took another drink. “How are things back home?”

“Also uneventful, at least at the moment. I’ve got lunch with Mycroft on Monday.”

“Couldn’t manage to worm your way out of it?”

Sherlock sighed. “Not this time.”

“Well, we’ll make up for it when I’m back. I daresay I’m a better dining companion than your brother.”

“It’s not difficult to be a better dining companion than Mycroft,” Sherlock pointed out. Hopkins laughed. “But yes, I’ll miss your company this week. I don’t know how I’ll manage to get by without you.”

“Something tells me that was sarcasm.”

“Well spotted, detective.” The vid screen on the opposite side of the room lit up suddenly, and Sherlock glanced at it. He suppressed a sigh. “Hopkins, I’ve got to go. I have another call.”

“S’all right, old man, I should probably get back to the folks. Have a good night.”

“The same to you. And – have a good year, Stanley.”

\----

If there was one thing that could be said about the press, it was that they were an intrepid lot. They were a collective nuisance and far more trouble than they were worth, in Sherlock’s opinion, but they were also persistent to the point of being bullheaded. Sometimes, that worked in their favour, and once in a while Sherlock was forced to grant that they had outsmarted the Met.

All it took, this time, was one journalist fresh out of university who was eager to prove himself. He desperately latched on to every non-story that the others ignored in the hopes of tracking down a lead that no one else had thought to pursue. He had spent months searching through the Met’s public database of unsolved cases, and he had by chance happened across the murders of Cheryl Landers and Katherine Jones in the same day (though they were still unnamed in the database), and so the details of those cases were fresh in his mind when he picked up a paper and read some of the continuing coverage of Jessica Thompson’s murder.

As mid-October approached, he broke the story.

“It was only a matter of time,” Sherlock reasoned when Hopkins called him with the news later that night. He had only just returned from his parents’, but already stress and worry were present in his voice again.

“I know,” Hopkins sighed, his words strained. “I just hoped we would have had more time to get ahead of the killer before the news broke. _Damn_.”

“We have made some progress,” Sherlock pointed out. “We have names for the earlier victims.”

“Which we can’t release because then the killer will know that he’s not been careful enough, and he will take even more care when choosing his victims and committing his crimes.” Hopkins’ voice was strained. “Fuck, Sherlock, what the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“Remain as clueless as possible,” Sherlock told him, “which shouldn’t be too difficult for you lot. Oh, don’t make that sound, you know what I mean. Look, you’re going to be forced to hold another press conference in order to appease the higher-ups and the public. Say that you have four crimes that appear to be connected. Don’t mention that you know the names of two of the earlier victims. Try not to mention the paint, if you can help it. Give as little information as possible. If he thinks the Met has completely hit a dead end, he won’t be on his guard. He won’t be too concerned, and he might end up making a mistake that we can then latch onto.”

“We _have_ completely hit a dead end,” Hopkins said after a moment. “Christ, Sherlock, I’ve never had a case that’s left me so completely lost.”

“Just get through the press conference,” Sherlock said reasonably. “One step at a time, Hopkins.”

Hopkins sighed.

“Thanks, old man,” he said quietly. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Oh, that poor man,” Alice sighed the next day when she stopped by to drop off some food she had picked up for Sherlock from the shops. Sherlock was reading on the sofa in the main room while the television played Hopkins’ press conference in the background. “You should take him out for a drink, Sherlock. He looks like he could use one.”

“If I took him out for a drink every time it appeared as though he could use one, he’d have died of alcohol poisoning long ago,” Sherlock said dryly.

“Still…”

“ _No_ , Alice.”

But when she had gone, Sherlock found his gaze being drawn more and more often to the television rather than his book. Hopkins did look worn, and the deep pools under his eyes looked as though they had always been there, and that there was no hope of them ever fading.

Hopkins gave the press conference admirably nonetheless, and he didn’t release any details apart from the fact that the Met was looking into four crimes that appeared to be related. But the longer Sherlock watched the conference, the more he realised that Alice had been right. 

Hopkins looked like hell, and he could certainly use a drink.

 

Hopkins wasn’t in his office that evening, and he wasn’t in the conference room. He also wasn’t down in the gym. It took Sherlock almost twenty minutes of searching, but he eventually located Hopkins down in one of the audio/visual rooms that were tucked in the back of the building.

A long row of computer screens sat before Hopkins. He had his feet propped up on the long desk and a keyboard sitting on his lap, and he was steadily clicking through images and text that popped up on the screen. Sherlock recognised the solved crimes database, having used it countless times himself.

Hopkins had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he’d removed his tie and draped it around his neck. He was sitting with his back to the door, and didn’t seem to hear Sherlock enter.

“I thought your team was supposed to be doing this,” Sherlock said. He shouldered his way into the room, as he was carrying two steaming mugs that he had fixed just moments ago in one of the break rooms. 

There was no good way to announce one’s presence around Hopkins if he didn’t notice you in the first place. He had a tendency to start easily—and violently—and there was very little anyone could do about it. No matter how gently and carefully Sherlock had tried to announce himself over the years, he always ended up giving Hopkins a nasty shock. Eventually, he stopped trying altogether.

This time, Hopkins merely jumped and swiveled his head around to see who was there. He relaxed at once and turned back to the computer screens.

“They are, when they have time. But I won’t give them work that I’m not willing to do myself,” Hopkins said. Sherlock sat down next to him and handed him one of the mugs. Hopkins accepted it with a grunt, not taking his eyes off the screen, but he pulled a face once he took a sip of the liquid. “That’s not coffee.”

“It’s tea,” Sherlock said, mildly amused. Hopkins grunted.

“Fat lot of good that does me right now.”

“It’s not _just_ tea,” Sherlock added. He smirked at Hopkins. “Just wait a moment, you’ll taste it. Or you’ll feel it, one of the two.”

It took a moment for Hopkins to realise what Sherlock had done. 

“You’re going to get us both in trouble, you know,” he said, amused, but he took another sip of the alcohol-laced tea anyway.

“Alice told me you needed a stiff drink. Who am I to argue with her?” Sherlock leaned back in his seat, turning his attention to the computer screens. “Found anything?”

Hopkins shook his head.

“How long have you been here?”

“Are you my mother, now?” Hopkins asked waspishly. Sherlock removed the keyboard from his grip and set it aside. Hopkins glowered at him.

“How long have you been here?” Sherlock repeated. “Since dinner, I’d wager.”

“Since the end of the press conference,” Hopkins said, lifting his chin. “What of it?”

But Hopkins wasn’t going to appreciate what he saw as _meddling_ on Sherlock’s part, and he had a tendency to close off if he felt as though someone was coddling him. Sherlock switched tracks.

“How did it go?” he asked, feigning ignorance. Hopkins snorted.                       

“Don’t give me that. I know very well that you watched it.” He sighed and cracked his neck. “How’d I do?”

“As well as you could have,” Sherlock said. It was true. Hopkins had done just as Sherlock had suggested, and gave the bare minimum of details necessary to appease the public. The journalists in the room spent half an hour trying to wring more information from him, but Hopkins was very good at stonewalling.

“Well, that’s high praise,” Hopkins muttered.

“It is,” Sherlock assured him. “Look, Hopkins, there is only –”

He cut off mid-sentence as the computer started to trill, and Hopkins spun around in his seat. He dropped his feet to the floor and grabbed the keyboard, quickly pausing the computer’s search through the database as the image of a young man blinked on the screen.

Hopkins clicked on the blinking image, and a wall of text appeared next to the man’s face.

“Daniel Jenkins,” Hopkins read off quietly. “His body was found in Regent’s Park six years ago. He had been – Christ. He’d been sexually assaulted, beaten, strangled, and then dumped naked in the park.”

“That’s almost a perfect match to your killer,” Sherlock said, sitting forward. He was intrigued despite himself. “How many of these matches have you found?”

“This is the first one in two hours,” Hopkins said. He was clicking through folders and entering a variety of passwords, trying to access the official crime scene photographs. “We’ve had a few other close matches recently, but this is the first one we’ve come across that matches the killer’s methods perfectly.”

He finally found the photographs that he had been seeking and opened them up. He pulled up the first one he could find that showed a full view of the body and zoomed in on the victim’s right hand, which was laying palm-up on the grass.

“Nothing,” Hopkins muttered, and he sounded torn between disappointed and relieved. The victim’s left hand was partially obscured, and Hopkins had to zoom in to get a proper look at it.

There was a smudge of grey paint on his palm.

“Christ.” Hopkins sat back in his seat and rubbed his forehead. “Jesus _Christ_.”

Sherlock leaned forward so that he could better read the screen.

“Daniel Jenkins,” he repeated. “Murdered in March of 2021. His landlord was convicted of the killing and sent to prison, which is where he’s been ever since.”

“And we’re sure this killer now isn’t just a copy-cat?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. The crimes are too identical. That landlord was wrongly convicted. This killer who’s murdering women now is the same one who killed Jenkins, and he’s been free ever since. I suspect the landlord’s conviction shocked him, though. He must have slipped up, made a mistake, and the landlord took the fall. It was lucky for him, but he was sure never to do the same thing again. It pushed him even deeper underground.”

“And maybe that’s why he’s selective about his victims now. He won’t abduct them if there’s a chance they can be identified,” Hopkins said. “Jenkins appears to have been an ordinary chap – had a job, a girlfriend, people who noticed when he went missing and who cared about finding his killer.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again.

“I need to send out a press release,” he said finally, quietly. “Amend the conference I gave this afternoon. We’ve got a serial killer who has been active for at least six years, and he has no preference as to the gender of his victims.”

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what was expected of him at this juncture, but deep lines of abject sorrow had etched themselves into Hopkins’ face. Middle age had already given him permanent lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, but now temporary ones creased his forehead and the ones that framed his mouth deepened. Sherlock reached out a hand and placed it on Hopkins’ shoulder. Hopkins turned to look at him, first in confusion and then in understanding, and something softened in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said quietly. They were John’s words, a sentiment he had often told others on Sherlock’s behalf or one he shared with patients after delivering difficult news. They felt strange and foreign on Sherlock’s tongue, but something eased in Hopkins’ face anyway and Sherlock immediately was glad that he’d said them.

“Yeah, so’m I. Thanks, Sherlock,” he said sincerely. He clapped Sherlock on the knee and leaned forward to peck at the keyboard. Sherlock dropped his hand, though the brief touch of Hopkins’ hand on his knee lingered. “I’m going to stay for a while longer. See if there are any other victims in this database that can be linked to the killer.”

“Send all of the relevant information regarding Daniel Jenkins to the interface at Baker Street,” Sherlock told him. “I’ll take a closer look at it in the morning.”

“Got big plans tonight, old man?” Hopkins teased lightly. He sent the information to Baker Street and then resumed the computer’s search of the vast database. “What’s more important to you than working on a case?”

_ You _ , Sherlock almost said, and that response was so automatic that it took him by surprise.

“I’m staying here,” he said, settling back in his seat and propping his feet on the desk. Hopkins glanced at him, surprised.

“For how long?” he asked. Sherlock shrugged, and took a sip of his now-cold tea.

“For as long as you are.”

Undisguised surprise showed in Hopkins’ face, followed by deep gratitude.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” he said in a low voice. “I – well. You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. I’m doing it anyway.” Sherlock leaned over and opened a nearby drawer. He pulled out another keyboard and tapped a key, bringing a computer screen on the end to life. “You keep working on 2021. I’ll move on to 2020.”

It was a gruesome, sobering business, and at one point Hopkins, looking dangerously pale, had needed to excuse himself.

But Sherlock couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be but here, at Hopkins’ side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A _mezuzah_ is a piece of parchment inscribed with a prayer that is affixed to the doorframes of Jewish homes. Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year, and it occurs in the autumn. _Shanah Tovah_ (or _L’shanah tovah_ ) is a greeting typically given on Rosh Hashanah, and loosely translated it means, “Have a good year.” Hopkins, for reasons stated in this chapter, for the most part is not compliant with Jewish custom.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time they reached the end of the crime database a week later, they had found only one additional victim who could be linked to their killer.

The electronic database only stretched back ten years. Beyond that, they would have had to turn to the written records that were stored in the Yard’s extensive archives. Sherlock didn’t feel as though that was necessary, and Hopkins agreed. Ten years was a long time to operate undetected. Besides, the last victim they found only dated to 2020. 

“Andrew Sarkis,” Hopkins said quietly to himself as he pinned the man’s photograph to the wall in the conference room. Sarkis had been murdered in April of 2020, and so he had usurped Daniel Jenkins of his status as first victim. He had been discovered in the unsolved crimes database, and his case had been a cold one until now.

“Six victims,” Sherlock said as he scanned the wall from his vantage point in the back of the room. “Two men, four women. Five names, one unknown.”

“Two names, technically,” Hopkins said. He stepped back and folded his arms, surveying the wall. “The other four were supposed to go unidentified for the rest of time. And they would have, if not for a couple of lucky breaks.”

“So your killer – our killer – started out picking his victims at random. He was doing that from the very beginning. That didn’t change,” Sherlock said. “But the fact that they’re purposely unidentifiable… that’s new.”

“So’s the grey paint,” Hopkins added, tapping the first photograph. The first victim’s left palm was covered in white paint. “But not the paint on the whole. The killer has always employed that, but the shade of paint changed after the first victim. I wonder why that is.”

He passed a hand over his face, thinking. 

“First order of business,” he said finally, “is getting the man convicted of the second murder out of prison. This was a horrendous oversight on all our parts, and he paid the price for it.”

“You weren’t the one who sent him away,” Sherlock pointed out calmly, knowing very well that Hopkins would carry the blame for it for as long as someone would let him, even though he hadn’t been personally involved in the case. “Your team never landed that case.”

“I know,” Hopkins said, though Sherlock wasn’t sure if his words had helped. Hopkins went on, “I need to interview him, and the original teams that handled those first two cases. Maybe they can help shed some light on this sorry mess.”

“We can only look backwards until we have something happen in the present that might give us some more evidence,” Sherlock mused to himself. From the stony silence he received, though, he realised that Hopkins didn’t necessarily feel the same way. He thought back on his words for a moment, and then said, “Not… that I am wishing that someone comes to harm so we can get a break in this case.”

“You’d best not be,” Hopkins said gruffly. “Right, I need to get moving on this. Give us a hand with the interviews?”

“With pleasure.”

\----

The end of October was upon them before Sherlock had got used to the idea that October had arrived at all, and as the month approached its close there was still no break in the serial killer case. 

They had interviewed all the relevant players from the first two murders, including the wrongly-convicted man, and no new details had emerged. Their memories had all been dimmed by the passage of years and blurred with other cases, and what details they did remember sometimes contradicted hard evidence such as case notes and photographs.

But the fact that there was already one ghastly criminal on everyone’s minds didn’t stop all the others from committing crimes. Hopkins’ team had been working on other smaller—but no less important—crimes whilst also dealing with their unnervingly-quiet serial killer, and in the last two weeks of October they were handed two manslaughter cases to handle. Sherlock, who hadn’t had a case since the embezzlement one, was contacted through his website by a man trying to get in touch with his biological family. 

“Not your standard fare as far as cases go, but it might keep you occupied for a time,” Hopkins had said sagely during one of their lunches. “I haven’t anything new on my end to report, so it’ll at least give you something new to think about.”

Alice, who came upon Sherlock one afternoon while he was standing on the sofa and pinning all of the documents relevant to his new case to the wall, had a different opinion.

“You really need a hobby,” she said flatly. She was carrying bags of food, having just got back from the shops. She went into the kitchen, where she deposited the shopping and started putting the various foodstuffs away. “Or a pet.”

“Hopkins is allergic,” Sherlock said absently. The silence that followed was lengthy enough to be noticeable, and Sherlock looked up to see Alice peering at him curiously from the kitchen doorway. “Not… that that has any bearing on whether or not I would consider getting an animal.”

“Uh-huh,” Alice said, sounding both smug and unconvinced, and she returned to her work. 

Sherlock cursed to himself as he dropped a pin behind the sofa, sighed, and plucked another from the box he had balanced preciously on the back of the sofa. He picked up another newspaper clipping, ignoring the pinpricks of pain in his left hand as he braced it against the wall and pushed the pin in. He managed to hang three more items pertaining to his case before his hand started to throb, and he stood there for some moments flexing his fingers, biting the inside of his cheek in order to keep his winces from visibly showing. The pain usually didn’t linger this long.

“They’ve stopped working, haven’t they?”

Alice was standing by the sofa, arms crossed, trying to look stern – as though it was Sherlock’s fault that his painkillers had ceased functioning effectively. 

“It’s a minor inconvenience,” Sherlock said, stepping off the sofa and brushing past her to fetch his laptop. “I can find new painkillers. Different ones.”

“You know, I was reading an article the other day –“

“Don’t, Alice.”

“ – and it said that research showed that the newest prosthetic devices can actually eliminate pain in a damaged limb. See, the doctors go in and not only add on the missing limbs, but they reconstruct the damaged tissue and bone, which eliminates many complications that amputees face.”

“That research has been around for years, I’m familiar with it,” Sherlock said shortly. “It’s just now making it into popular science publications, but it’s always been present in actual journals.”

“Have you considered –”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped, and she stopped short. “Yes, of course I have. Do you really think the thought never crossed my mind? I want my hand back, of course I do. It’s tempting. But I’ve grown used to the way it is now, and I’d rather not take the time out just yet for the surgery and the resulting physical therapy, and I especially don’t want to deal with the possibility that my body may well reject the prosthesis. It’s not worth it, Alice.”

Alice stared at him for a long moment before putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly.

“I understand wanting to honour him,” she said softly, “but I don’t think that’s worth this pain. Do you?”

“Given what he went through at the end,” Sherlock said, just as quietly, “I think this is the least I can do.”

He was alone later that night and reading a book on Gregor Mendel when the computer interface on the far wall lit up and a message came through. Sighing, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and strode across the room to read the screen, as his sight wasn’t as sharp as it once had been. 

It was a document listing the best surgeons in London, all of whom had specialized in both performing amputations and in applying prosthetics to patients who had suffered grievous wounds. 

Sherlock erased the message with an angry jab and then slammed his hand flat against the wall in frustration.

“ _Stop this_ , Mycroft,” he snarled to the room at large, furious. “I get it! You monitor my conversations, my _movements_ , my entire life. I know that. Stop _flaunting_ it! And stop interfering.”

For a while, there was nothing but silence. Then, the computer screen came to life again.

_ Good night, brother _ . 

\----

It didn’t take long for the newspapers to give their killer a name.

“ _The Regent’s Park Killer_ ,” Hopkins read from a headline before slapping the paper into Sherlock’s palm. “Clever.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock said dryly, and set the paper aside on Hopkins’ desk after offering it a cursory glance. “More like _inaccurate_. Although it’s a sight better than _The London Strangler_ they were testing out last week. You called?”

“Tried to, at least. What the bloody hell happened to your vid system? It kept giving me error messages.”

“We had a disagreement,” Sherlock said darkly. He had spent thirty minutes last night tearing every computer interface in his flat out of the walls and cutting through all the circuitry. He had effectively cut himself off from the rest of London, and it had been invigorating. Knowing Mycroft, the interfaces would be replaced and the circuitry mended by the time Sherlock returned from his errand to the Yard, but it had felt at least momentarily heartening to destroy some of his brother’s surveillance means. 

“Right,” Hopkins said, giving him a strange look. Sherlock shrugged.

“I answered my mobile, don’t look at me like that.”

A muscle leaped in Hopkins’ jaw, and his eyes turned to stone.

“Yeah, and it still took you bloody long enough to get here,” he snarled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Hopkins had summoned him to the Yard earlier that morning and expected a prompt response. He ended up waiting for close to two hours before Sherlock showed up--which Sherlock was completely unapologetic about.

“I was in the middle of an experiment _and_ I had to wait for a cab. If it had been so urgent, you should have sent a car around.”

“I _did_ send a car around,” Hopkins snapped. Sherlock glared at him.

“You sent a _driverless_ car.”

“Because I don’t have the manpower to be sending people out to Baker Street to chauffeur you around,” Hopkins said in exasperation. “Not to mention the fact that it’s _not their bloody job.”_

“Then it must not have been that urgent if you couldn’t spare someone,” Sherlock pointed out smugly. Hopkins threw up his hands in frustration.

“You know, Sherlock, it was quaint for a time, but your avoidance of technology is really starting to get irritating. There are about five fucking cabs left in London right now thanks to the onset of the driverless public transport system--which is the safest in the world, I might add--and that’s why it takes you bloody _forever_ to get your arse down here. That’s why it takes you bloody forever to get _anywhere_. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

For the first time that afternoon, Sherlock felt real anger bubble in his chest. Hopkins had no idea what it was like to be constantly monitored; to be conscious of the fact that there was someone out there Sherlock couldn’t outsmart, and who watched his every movement. Mycroft called it concern; Sherlock called it far worse, _overbearing_ and _smothering_ being chief among his many unsavory adjectives.

_ Fatal _ where Victor was concerned, but Sherlock didn’t want to think about that right now, and he didn’t have the patience to explain it to Hopkins. 

“Well, I’m here now, so what the devil do you want?” he snapped instead. Hopkins drew a deep, bracing breath.  

“It looks like your tactic worked--as far as keeping the killer around, that is,” Hopkins said briskly, anger still present in his tone. “We’ve got a another victim. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

Sherlock kicked the office door shut and then stalked over to Hopkins’ desk.

“Listen to me,” he snarled, placing both hands on the desk and leaning down. “I told you at the start I don’t do cases like this, that I _can’t_ do cases like this. You wanted my advice anyway, and I gave it. You were the one who chose to follow it. It was _your_ choice to conduct the press conference in that manner, and _your_ choice to keep certain information from the public. Now pull your head out of your arse and take a look around you. I am not the one who harmed these victims, and neither are you. Misplaced blame will only serve to delay and distract you. Now stop being such a bloody fool and _focus on the case_.”

Hopkins stood abruptly, and Sherlock straightened. For a moment, he was certain that Hopkins was about to strike him, but then Hopkins appeared to rein himself in. His clouded features cleared, and he carefully schooled his expression into one of detached neutrality.

“Her body was discovered this morning,” Hopkins said stiffly. “She was dumped, naked, in Regent’s. Forensics estimates that she couldn’t have been more than eighteen, twenty years old.”

“But that’s not why you called me down here,” Sherlock said. “You could just as easily have sent the information over to Baker Street, or brought it yourself. No, there’s something else going on here. You have a name already?”

Hopkins shook his head. “No. But we have something that might be even better than a name. It looks as though there was some DNA evidence left behind on the victim.  Anderson’s running the tests right now; that’s why I called you down here. We should have something to go on momentarily, and whatever it is, I want you to see it immediately. Come on.”

They moved to the conference room. It seemed as though Hopkins had taken up a permanent residence in there. The table was littered with miscellany that all belonged to him - his half-empty coffee mug; pieces of paper with notes scribbled in his handwriting; his stapler. Sherlock wondered when Hopkins had last seen the inside of his house.

Anderson was already in the conference room, waiting for them, and he was busy arranging his report on the table.

“Daniel,” Hopkins greeted briskly as they stepped through the door. “What’ve you got?”

Anderson looked up, his mouth tight at the corners with apprehension.

“I’m afraid we’re no closer to identifying our killer,” he said regretfully. “And I think we may have complicated the issue.”

Hopkins’ eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Anderson glanced at Sherlock, and there was clear unease in his eyes. Sherlock steeled himself for news that was undoubtedly going to make Hopkins upset, going by the hesitation that was plain on Anderson’s face.

“We have two people involved in these murders,” Anderson said, dropping the bomb quickly. “I don’t know to what extent the second man plays a role, but the traces of DNA on the victim’s body point to two different men.”

Hopkins’ voice was low and dangerous when he finally spoke. “You’re certain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how do we know that the second’s man DNA came from an accomplice and not someone she had encountered earlier in the day?”

“We don’t,” Anderson admitted. “Given how thorough our killer is, though, I feel as though it’s unlikely he would have missed that. Frankly, it’s a miracle we got the DNA that we did.”

He looked at Sherlock, and explained, “The fifth victim was able to fight back—or at least, she’s the first one where we’ve found obvious evidence of fighting. Maybe the drugs in her system weren’t strong enough, or she didn’t react the same way as the others. Regardless, she was able to scratch her attacker—or attackers. She was cleaned off, just like the rest of them, but they weren’t able to get all of the skin cells that had been left behind under her fingernails.”

“And you were able to identify two separate kinds of DNA,” Sherlock finished for him. Anderson nodded.

“Although ‘identify’ is too strong of a word,” he said. “I can tell that the DNA belonged to two different human males. Unfortunately, it was too degraded by the time we got to it. I tried running it through our databases, but it was too badly damaged. Even if our killer is in there—which is likely, given that he was probably a city worker at one point—this DNA isn’t enough to identify him.”

The room was quiet for a long while after Anderson finished speaking. Even Sherlock began to feel uncomfortable, though he didn’t dare break the silence. Hopkins’ sour mood worsened as the silence lengthened, and Sherlock could feel fury rolling off of him in waves.

“Right, because this is the first we're hearing of a second man, let's operate under the assumption that we have _one_ killer - one man who is consistently committing all of the crimes," Hopkins said stiffly. "This second source of DNA could be any number of people. Maybe he's someone our victim encountered during the day. More likely, he's an accomplice who aided our killer with the abductions or provided a safe kill site."

"Agreed," Sherlock put in. The crimes were too consistent. It was likely that only one man was committing them, while the other operated more on the periphery.

"That still doesn't explain, Daniel, why didn’t we find this evidence on the other victims," Hopkins said, his words harsh even though he knew perfectly well why it hadn’t been found. He was looking for a fight, and someone was going to give it to him.

“There was simply no evidence _to_ find,” Anderson pointed out, almost gently. “This killer is thorough, sir. He drugs his victims so they’re too weak to fight back, and he cleans their bodies prior to dumping them. This was an unusual victim. Somehow, she managed to fight even through the drugs. He cleaned her pretty thoroughly, but it’s hard to get everything out from under a human fingernail, and DNA is miniscule. What was left behind was barely enough to work with. We’re lucky to get the evidence that we did.”

Even Sherlock winced at Anderson’s choice of words in his last sentence, though he could find no fault with that explanation. The man’s reasoning was sound. Hopkins, however, set his jaw in a hard, angry line.

“This is unacceptable, Daniel,” he growled.

‘This was unpreventable, sir,” Anderson replied calmly. “Any other forensics team would tell you the same.”

“But you _aren’t_ any other team, Anderson--you’re  _my_ team. And I expect better. Come back when you have something more useful to report and not a moment before.”

Anderson, before he departed, glanced at Sherlock. They shared a look and a shrug--the most amicable exchange that they had had in years.

Hopkins stormed back into his office. Sherlock followed.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sherlock demanded.

Hopkins, in response, turned and slammed his fist into the wall. The skin broke immediately and his knuckles started to bleed, bright rivulets of blood spilling down the back of his hand.

“She was eighteen,” he growled. “She was fucking _eighteen_. _Damn it!”_

He punched the wall again before Sherlock could stop him, and would have done so a third time if Sherlock hadn’t grabbed his wrist.

“Stop this,” Sherlock snapped. “It doesn’t do anyone any good, and will be of no help in solving this case. Stop being a fool and _think_. It’s the only hope you have of figuring out who’s doing this.”

“Little good it’s done us so far,” Hopkins snarled. He tugged his hand out of Sherlock’s grip and reached for a handkerchief, which he wrapped securely around his bleeding knuckles. Sherlock found that he had to resist the urge to reach out and take the injured hand in his own; instead, he balled his own hands into fists and shoved them into his pockets.

“We will solve this,” Sherlock said vehemently. “I will help you _solve this,_ Stanley.”

Hopkins stared at him for a moment.

“God, I hope so. I know you’ll try your damnedest, at least,” he said quietly. “Why do you think I came to you in the first place? If anyone can solve it, you can. I’ve never doubted you, Sherlock.”

That sentiment was more heartening than it had any right to be, and it took Sherlock slightly by surprise. He had met Hopkins not long after his return from the dead, and only two months after Victor’s death. And even though prior to that Hopkins had only known about him courtesy of the rumour mill at the Met--and from Lestrade’s own stories--he had never wavered in his loyalty to Sherlock, even in the months after Victor’s death when that loyalty was far from deserved.

Hopkins had always trusted him, and Sherlock had never known what he’d done to earn that trust. In anyone else, he would call it foolish.

But Hopkins was far from a fool.

“Here.” Sherlock reached out, tentative, and when he received no resistance he gently  cupped Hopkins’ injured hand. He peeled back the handkerchief, spotted already with blood, and inspected the swelling knuckles. “This doesn’t look broken.”

“No,” Hopkins said softly. He flexed his fingers, as though to demonstrate, though Sherlock didn’t miss the wince that passed over his features. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock dabbed at the blood on the back of Hopkins’ hand, which was already starting to harden.

“No, you’re not,” he said quietly. Hopkins bit the inside of his cheek, hard; Sherlock pretended not to have seen and dropped his gaze once again to Hopkins’ hand.

“I hate these cases,” Hopkins said finally, his voice thick. “I hate every goddamn thing about them. Why did I take this job, Sherlock?”

“Because you’re needed,” Sherlock said softly. Hopkins snorted.

“Hardly,” he said bitterly. “What good am I compared to you?”

“And what good am I if you aren’t at my side?”

Hopkins met his gaze sharply, and Sherlock held it for several unwavering seconds. The air between them was thick and heavy with all that went unsaid--with all that Sherlock didn’t know how to voice. And then suddenly he became aware that Hopkins’ hand was still in his own, and that he had been idly sweeping his thumb back and forth across the sharp bone of Hopkins’ wrist. They pulled away from one another, and Hopkins cleared his throat.

“I need to get back to work,” he said softly, rubbing a thumb across his brow, as though he could smooth away the weary lines. “Call me if you think of anything, would you?”

“The same goes for you. I want to know the moment you have a name for her.”

They exchanged a lingering handshake, and Sherlock left without a backward glance.

\----

Sherlock thoroughly detested the restaurant that had become Mycroft’s latest haunt, but he knew better than to skip out on lunch with his brother.

They had been meeting on a regular basis for five years now, a routine that Mycroft had insisted on implementing following their mother’s passing. Sherlock, if he didn’t want his relative freedom restricted any more than Mycroft already had—and if he wanted access to the money left behind by their mother—was forced to comply with Mycroft’s wishes.

The restaurant was posh, gleaming, and always busy. It was perfect for Mycroft, who always preferred to hide in the middle of a crowd.

Sherlock just preferred to hide.

“You’re late,” Mycroft announced when Sherlock joined him at their customary table. It was seven minutes after one.

“I know,” Sherlock sighed. “I wasn’t going to come.”

The dining room had a high, vaulted ceiling that magnified the dozens of conversations occurring around them, and his words were almost lost to the din.

“What changed your mind?”

“I couldn’t figure out where you’d placed the fifth man on my security detail and therefore couldn’t elude him,” Sherlock muttered, irritated. A waiter brought over his usual meal; Mycroft was already eating his.

“Ah, that would be Sophia. She’s excellent. You’ll never even know she’s there.”

Sherlock bit back the unexpected _Fuck you, Mycroft_ that tugged at his tongue and decided that perhaps he had been spending too much time around Hopkins after all. He smiled to himself inexplicably at the thought, and hid his expression behind a sip of water from his glass.

“How are Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade?”

“Fine.”

“And your work?”

“Good.”

The conversation continued along in that vein for some time, with Mycroft asking meaningless questions and Sherlock giving monosyllabic answers.

“Can we expect you for Christmas?” Mycroft asked finally as the conversation petered out and the meal drew to its conclusion at last. Sherlock shrugged.

“I hadn’t planned on it,” he said, which was the same answer he gave every year. He had not been home for the holidays since before his mother’s death. He spent Christmas nowadays with John and Lestrade, and much preferred it that way.

“Erik has been asking after you.”

Sherlock grimaced at the mention of his stepfather.

“Good for him.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft shook his head at Sherlock’s petulant reply, but instead of scolding him, said, “You can bring Inspector Hopkins, if you like. There’s always enough food to feed what seems like a small country. It’s far too much for just the three of us.”

That got Sherlock’s attention, and he stared openly at Mycroft.

“Why would I want to bring Hopkins?” he asked, while at the same time shoving away the tiny spark of gratitude that tried to light in his chest. Mycroft stared at him for a long moment.

“No reason,” he said at last, reaching for his card. “No reason at all, little brother. Maybe next year.”

Sherlock was back at Baker Street within an hour, having refused his brother’s car in favour of walking. He rapped sharply on Alice’s door, and when she opened it, said, “I need to borrow your dog. Checkers!”

“Oh, Sherlock, I don’t think -”

She was interrupted by the puppy, who flew out from under the kitchen table and darted between her legs before dashing upstairs. Sherlock gave her a smirk; she rolled her eyes at him.

“No experimenting on him,” she said firmly. “And I _mean_ it this time.”

Checkers settled in his usual spot on the sofa, happily gnawing away on a chew toy he had discovered under Sherlock’s desk.

“There have been seven murders,” Sherlock said to the puppy, who ignored him. “All of the murders have occurred over a period of six years. All of the victims were abducted off the streets, but no one saw them go. No one saw them in transport. They weren’t seen again until their bodies were discovered approximately forty-eight hours later.”

Sherlock picked up a pen off the table and began to twirl it through his fingers, thinking.

“And there is never anything left behind,” Sherlock muttered. “Nothing identifiable, at least.”

Checkers gave a soft bark, and Sherlock gave him an obliging pat on the head. 

“Yes, even from the start,” he mused. “There was never anything left behind that could be traced to our killer. Other people took the fall for his crimes. It’s too neat, too perfect. It’s as though -”

He stopped abruptly. Checkers looked up at the lack of sound, and then went back to his chew toy.

“It’s as though he’s been doing this for _years,”_ Sherlock whispered to himself. “Much longer than just six, I mean. He’s got it all worked out. He’s had his practice; he’s worked out his mistakes. He has _perfected_ this. It is neat, it is methodical, it is -”

He cut himself off short of saying _elegant,_ because while the killer’s methods might have been eerily clinical, they were also at the same time incomprehensible.

But the crimes had been going on for much longer than six years, that much was almost certain. No one got anything right on the first try, and especially not murderers. The killer didn’t perfect his methods overnight; he would have had to work at them, and he would have had to learn from his mistakes. He needed _practice._ But if the murders hadn’t been happening for six years, then for how long?

There was only one way to find out.

 

Sherlock’s second trip to the Yard that day occurred as the late afternoon faded into early evening.

Hopkins wasn’t in his office, nor was he in the conference room. Sherlock finally managed to track down one of Hopkins’ sergeants, who told him that the Inspector was in the gym.

The Yard had an elaborate gym that occupied the bottommost floor of the building, and Hopkins was a regular fixture there when time allowed. He was an adequate footballer and decent enough at rugby to hold his own in a match, and years spent with Sherlock had allowed him to add fencing and boxing to his repertoire. But Hopkins’ first love was the water, and it had been for as long as Sherlock had known him. He took to water as though he had been born beneath the waves, and even Sherlock envied his abilities. 

Hopkins was swimming laps in the pool, and he didn’t hear Sherlock come through the door.

He cut a clean swath through the water, sharp as a knife’s edge. His powerful shoulders came out of the water with every stroke, muscles flexing as his arms propelled him along the surface of the pool. He reached the far end of the pool, turned, and began to swim the rest of his lap.

Sherlock hesitated a moment, mesmerized by the sight of the glistening, tanned skin, and the muscles rippling just beneath it. There was a pink scar on Hopkins’ right arm that stood out in sharp contrast with his lighter skin, and droplets raced down the mottled flesh every time Hopkins brought that arm out of the water. Sherlock imagined chasing each one with his tongue, and forcibly beat back that mental image before it had a chance to fester.

But all at once the room was stifling, even though he was clad only in his shirtsleeves. Sherlock’s mouth was too dry and, he realised with a sinking horror, his blood was beginning to stir and run south.

He clamped his eyes shut and forced himself to think of the citric acid cycle-- _succinate, fumarate, malate_ \--before daring to make his presence known. He went through the cycle three times before his blood had settled and cooled. He had no time for his body’s sudden awakening needs, not right now.

There were more important things to be done.

Hopkins had just started a third lap when Sherlock finally stepped out of the shadows, his footfalls echoing in the cavernous and otherwise-empty room. Hopkins noticed the sound immediately and stopped his routine, treading water while he blinked chlorine out of his eyes and squinted at Sherlock.

“Oh. Hello.” Hopkins swam over to the edge closest to Sherlock and folded his arms on it, bringing his chest half out of the pool. He looked up. “Seeing you twice in one day; that’s never a good sign. What’s happened?”

Sherlock sank into a crouch so that he wasn’t looking down at Hopkins.

“Nothing,” he tried to assure. “I just need access to some old case files.”

Hopkins ran a hand through his hair, causing it to spike and stand on end.

“Cold cases?” he asked warily. He was much more reluctant than Lestrade had been to give those out to Sherlock.

“No. Solved ones, like we were searching through before. But this time I need them dating back approximately twenty-five years, if you could.”

Hopkins frowned at him. “That’s before my time. Before the database’s time, too. For most of those, you’ll have to look at hard copies.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know.”

Hopkins considered him for a moment.

“Sally’s in her office right now. Have her show you where those records are kept. You can make copies of what you need and take them back to Baker Street. But Sherlock,” Hopkins said, stopping him as he’d been about to turn away, “what’s going on?”

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet. Hopkins pulled himself out of the pool and reached for a towel; Sherlock tried not to stare at the taut muscles of his torso.

“As soon as I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”

He was almost to the door when Hopkins called out to him.

“We have a name for the fifth victim.”

Sherlock paused, his hand on the door handle. He glanced back over his shoulder.

“Sarah Burlough,” Hopkins said. His words echoed off the smooth floor around the pool. “I was going to call you about it later tonight. She had no family; no friends. We circulated the picture at some local shops. Her grocer recognised her, and even then he only knew her first name. No one was going to miss her, Sherlock. They didn’t even know her – what is it?”

Sherlock tapped a finger on the door while he stared sightlessly at the concrete floor. This didn’t make any sense. 

“We aren’t supposed to know her name,” he said at last, lifting his eyes to look at Hopkins. “The fourth victim— _that_ was a mistake, us discovering her identity. The killer slipped up, and he _knew_ it. He should have acted accordingly. So why did he suddenly become _more_ careless?”

“That’s what you wanted, though, isn’t it?” Hopkins pointed out. “That was the point of the press conference – making him comfortable so he _would_ slip up.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Yes, but having it happen so soon… it’s too easy. It’s as though the killer is getting worse with each subsequent murder. The initial ones were almost perfect. But then victim four gave us a name. So why does victim number five not only give us a name as well, but also DNA evidence?”

Hopkins shrugged, his shoulder muscles rippling under his skin with the movement. Sherlock had to look away for a moment to keep his thoughts from derailing completely.

“Maybe we rattled him,” Hopkins said.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Sherlock conceded. “It’s unlikely, however.”

“So what do you think is going on?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. The phrase tasted bitter on his tongue. “But I have a hunch about something else. You’ll be hearing from me.”

\----

It took Sherlock three days to confirm his suspicions about the murders. 

It was mind-numbing work that involved sorting through case files that spanned twenty-five years, cross-referencing the data, and searching handwritten and scrawled notes for even the slightest hint of a connection. The problem was that the connection between the murders wouldn’t necessarily have been well-documented, for even a seasoned investigator couldn’t have known that the tiny detail would have proven important later on.

But Hopkins had been correct in assuming that not all of the Regent’s Park Killer’s victims would have been in the unsolved crimes database, given the fact that they had found a victim whose case had been closed by convicting the wrong man. They just hadn’t gone back far enough in the solved crimes records. There were more victims. There _had_ to be more victims, because the simple fact of the matter was that no murderer got it right on his first try.

By end of the week Sherlock had two mentions of earlier cases in which the victims had been found with paint on their hands – cases that far predated the presumed 2020 start date of these crimes. Both of the cases were closed, as two killers had already been arrested, but Sherlock was positive that the arrests had been in error, just as it had been with Daniel Jenkins’ case.

Hopkins was asleep on the sofa in his house when Sherlock broke in late that Friday night. The sight gave Sherlock pause, for even though Hopkins was resting, and therefore unguarded, his face still held its weary lines and restless frown. There was a book open on his chest; he had fallen asleep whilst reading.

“Stanley,” Sherlock said, but he didn’t approach the man, nor touch him. He had a fair idea of how Hopkins reacted to being woken unexpectedly, and thought it best to keep clear of his reach. He had seen Hopkins’ reflexes at work multiple times over the years, and had quickly learned that they were something to be admired - or feared, if you happened to be on the wrong end of one of his blows.  “ _Inspector.”_

Hopkins jerked out of sleep with a grunt and stared at him with alarmed eyes, his hand automatically reaching for something under the cushion. Reflex, no doubt--Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised to learn if the man slept with a weapon within reach at night.

“Oh, hell,” Hopkins muttered once he realised where he was--and who was standing in his main room. He passed a hand over his face wearily. “What time is it?”

“Eleven.”

Hopkins sighed.

“Dear Lord,” he muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes again. “Right, then, out with it. And this better be good.”

“I have something,” Sherlock said. Hopkins sat up, the book falling off his chest and landing in his lap. “This killer of yours. We’ve been operating under the assumption that he’s only been killing for the past six years. That was an error, Stanley. He’s been killing for at least twenty.”

Hopkins stared at him.

“No,” he said bluntly. “You can’t be serious.”

“I know I have  a poor sense of humour, Stanley, but even I recognise that that would be in poor taste. I am quite serious.”

Sherlock handed over a piece of paper, upon which he’d written down the names of the other two victims. “Amanda Laurens and James Merchant. They were murdered twenty and eighteen years ago, respectively. And they were both found with streaks of white paint on their palms, in addition to the rape and strangulation.”

“Just like Andrew Sarkis.” Hopkins raked a hand through his hair, staring at the names. “How on Earth did you manage to figure this one out?”

“This killer has almost been too good at his crimes. He never leaves evidence behind, and he rarely makes a mistake. That doesn’t just _happen_ , Stanley. He needed to perfect his methods,” Sherlock said. “So I employed the same methods we had been using for the electronic crimes databases, but this time I had to apply them to actual written records. I was looking for cases of victims who, in the past, also disappeared from somewhere in London, only to turn up dead forty-eight hours later."

"And you found them in the solved crimes archives," Hopkins said bitterly. "Meaning that we've got some more wrongly-convicted people in prison."

Sherlock nodded. "But those first two murders were sloppy. The killer left strands of his hair behind both times, but DNA wasn't examined because the hair appeared to match the suspects that the police already had in mind. Between that, the suspects' respective lack of alibis, and their supposed motives, there was no reason for the police to look for a killer who had been a stranger to the victims."

"Let me guess - we can't try to run the hair for DNA anymore."

Sherlock shook his head. "The evidence from both those cases was stored improperly, and it has been misplaced in the intervening years."

“All right, then. Twenty years ago,” Hopkins said. “Whose team would have handled those cases?”

Sherlock didn’t answer right away. Hopkins glanced up at him, and then his eyes widened in realisation.

“ _Oh,”_ he said. “Lestrade.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I think,” he said, “it’s time we called in some outside assistance.”


	7. Chapter 7

It had been almost a year since Sherlock had last made the journey out to Weymouth, the seaside town in Dorset where John and Lestrade had been residing ever since a bullet to the hip had ended Lestrade’s career five years previous. 

“I thought we were never going to get you back out here,” John said when they met on the platform amid the hordes of holiday travelers. He was little changed from when they had last seen one another in person, having only added a few more lines to his face and a bit of weight around his middle. His hair was greying in uneven patches, though since it was already sandy to begin with the change was subtle. Sherlock knew the changes in his own hair were far more noticeable, the grey contrasting harshly with his ebony locks.

They didn’t embrace--it wasn’t their way--but when John held out his hand Sherlock clasped it between both of his own, and his smile matched John’s.

John drove them both back to the house and waited patiently while Sherlock gathered his bags. He had long since stopped attempting to conceal his wound from the outside world, and hadn’t worn his padded gloves out in public in years. An unfortunate result of this, however, was that Sherlock could go virtually nowhere without someone offering their aid once they noticed the damaged hand. The trip to Weymouth had been nearly hellish, in fact, with everyone from the porters to fellow passengers attempting to help him with his bags.

But not John. Steady, understanding, _constant_ John. There were truly some things that never changed, and Sherlock was heartened by this.

“How is he?” he asked finally as they walked up the path to the house.

“He’s all right,” John said, his tone cautiously hopeful. “Today’s a good day.”

Sherlock nodded to himself, his hand tightening involuntarily on the strap of the bag he had slung over his shoulder while John unlocked the door to the house. He had only seen Lestrade a handful of times since the diagnosis two years ago, their last meeting being the previous Christmas—almost exactly a year ago now.

“Greg,” John called when they stepped into the house, “we’re -”

But he didn’t get any further than that, for there was a sudden frantic scampering from the kitchen before a dog hurtled around the corner, barreling toward John and the newcomer in the house.

“Nice try,” John said as he quickly intercepted the dog before he could reach Sherlock. Ajax went up on his hind legs and put his front paws on John’s chest--he had grown to full size since last year, and was nearly as long as John was tall. “You’ve seen Sherlock before, settle down.”

“You’re going to have to say hello, Sherlock, or he’ll never leave you alone.”

Sherlock and John turned at the new voice to see Lestrade coming down the hall. He was moving easily, Sherlock was relieved to see, and had gained back nearly all of the weight he had lost in the past two years. His hair had finally given up the dark colour it had been clinging to for decades, though, and he was now completely grey. It suited him.

Sherlock stooped to give Ajax an obligatory pat on the head, and even allowed the dog to lick his hand for a few moments. When he straightened, Ajax seemed satisfied. He gave a happy bark and ran off again. John and Lestrade laughed.

“He’s a handful sometimes.” Lestrade stepped around John to give Sherlock a hug in greeting. “Hello, lad.”

“Greg.”

Lestrade stepped back and gave him a fond smile.

“You look well.” His eyes flicked to the top of Sherlock’s head, and he smirked. “Going grey, though, I see. When’d that happen?”

“Just today. John’s driving skills are sorely lacking in refinement.”

“Oi! Don’t insult the man with the gun.”

Sherlock dropped his bags in the spare room upstairs and returned downstairs with his laptop and the handful of materials pertaining to the case that he brought along.

“Just like old times, isn’t it,” John mused when he came into the main room to find that Sherlock had pinned a map to the wall over the fireplace and had spread his case notes out on the table. “Should I get Greg?”

“Please.”

They settled on the sofas on either side of the table, John and Lestrade sharing one while Sherlock sat opposite them. Ajax wandered in and jumped up on the sofa next to Sherlock, turning in place several times before settling down with his head on Sherlock’s thigh.

“They found another body the other day,” Lestrade said softly, picking up a few papers off the table and skimming through Sherlock’s notes. “That’s number... five, is it?”

“Seven, actually,” Sherlock said. “There have been five in the last two years, and seven total in the past six. Though if I’m right... it’s actually nine. If not more.”

Lestrade glanced up at him.

“Nine?” he asked, sounding aghast. “Who are the other two?”

John, who had been watching Sherlock’s face, answered, “Two of your old cases, Greg. That’s why you wanted to come out so early in the month, isn’t it, Sherlock? You wanted to talk about this before Christmas."

“It’s not the sole reason. I never... work so well as when I’m with the two of you. But, yes, I thought Lestrade might be able to provide me with some additional insight.” Sherlock pulled two files out from under his papers and handed them to Lestrade. “Twenty years ago, you handled the murder of a woman named Amanda Laurens. Two years later, you were given the murder of one James Merchant.”

Lestrade flipped through the files Sherlock had brought along, a crease forming between his brows. “Both of those cases were solved. They weren’t even related. God, Sherlock, did we miss something?”

“There was nothing to be done about it at the time. If not for these recent murders, I would never even have made the connection.” Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. “And these are only the murders whose files we have access to. Other teams might have handled others, and I’d have no idea.”

“Back up a moment,” John said. “First off, what makes you think these murders are all related? These people appear to have nothing in common.”

“And neither do the current victims, apart from the fact that they’re all dead.” Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “When Amanda Laurens’ body was found, you made note of the fact that she had a streak of dried paint on her right palm. White paint.”

“I suppose I did,” Lestrade said, frowning as he looked at his old notes. “It didn’t seem important, and I don’t think it pertained to the actual murder.”

“James Merchant also had a streak of dried paint on his right palm. It’s the same shade of white that was found on Amanda Laurens’ hand. And if their bodies were here right now, I’m almost certain that the paint would be of the same composition.”

“What does that have to do with their murders?” John asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Sherlock admitted. “But every victim in this current killing spree has been found with a streak of grey paint on his or her palm. Of the most recent victims, the ones whose bodies remained intact or the ones where there was enough foresight to take a sample of the paint, it’s been found that the paint all came from the same batch.”

“Grey paint, though, not white,” John persisted. Sherlock shook his head, feeling a sudden hot rush of guilt. John was trying so hard to make this easier on Lestrade; to keep Sherlock from drawing the inevitable conclusion that two people had been wrongly convicted under his reign. Sherlock wished he could offer Lestrade that solace.

“The killer’s methods have remained the same for over twenty years,” Sherlock said regretfully. “He abducts his victims, assaults them, beats them for two days, and then strangles them before stripping their corpses and dumping them somewhere in the city. I don’t know why he changed the colour of his paint. I believe that the grey must have some sort of meaning for him that the white did not.”

“He’s been marking his victims,” Lestrade said. “But.... why? To keep track? As a trophy of sorts?”

“It’s possible that he wants us to know that these killings are related--it’s his way of showing off. That appears to be the most popular theory, although others have floated the idea of the victims all being members of some sort of cult.”

“You don’t like those ideas,” John said. Sherlock shook his head.

“They don’t sit right with me, no.”

“Nor with me,” Lestrade said. He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his face. “From what I’ve read about the case, this killer doesn’t seem to be too concerned with sensationalism. He’s not making a fuss, he’s not making a scene. That’s entirely the doing of the tabloids. He hasn’t upped his game by sending notes to the media or the police. His methods have remained the same. He’s going to keep doing this, regardless of how much attention it gets.”

“Those are my feelings as well,” Sherlock said. “And if he’s been doing this for decades, as I suspect...”

“Then he either has the patience of a saint or he truly doesn’t care about the attention,” Lestrade finished.  “ _Hell.”_

“Not that I don’t trust your judgment,” John said to Sherlock, “but it seems to me that paint is a flimsy connection at best. You don’t know for sure that these killings are related to your current spree.”

“The fact that the killer employed the exact same methods of torture and death both twenty years ago and today is just as telling as the paint,” Sherlock said.

“Why?”

Sherlock blinked and looked up at Lestrade. Even John was looking curiously at his husband.

“Why what, Lestrade?”

“Why are you working this case, Sherlock?” he asked. “You don’t take ones like these. Never have.”

“It’s been a dull autumn,” Sherlock said, dropping his eyes back to the table and staring unseeingly at his notes.

Lestrade was quiet a moment, as though he was expecting Sherlock to elaborate. When that didn’t happen, he simply said, “All right. You’ve got us here. Talk it through.”

And so Sherlock did, taking them through the case from the beginning, repeating all of the details they already doubtless knew and providing ones the police had kept away from the media.

It wasn’t enough.

By the time the fire had burned low and the clock approached midnight, Sherlock had talked himself hoarse and still was no closer to making any new connections. If anything, his mind felt even more muddled than before. None of this _made sense_.

“Sorry, lads, but we’re going to have to pick this up in the morning,” Lestrade said wearily.

“I’ll stay up for a bit,” John said, and Sherlock didn’t miss his glance though he pretended not to notice it. He took a long swallow from the glass of water John had handed him, as it saved him from speaking. In truth, he was grateful for John’s offer. As muddled as his mind now was, he was at the same time too wired to attempt sleep himself. Talking cases through out loud always left him feeling jittery, and invigorated when the pieces started to fall together.

This wasn’t invigorating, however. This was a slow, burning torture.

Lestrade gave John a parting kiss, and then paused on the threshold just before he left the room.

“Tell me something, Sherlock.”

“Hm?” Sherlock looked up from his work.

“Did two innocent men get sent to prison on my watch?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John stiffen.

“As John said, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, sounding calmer than he felt, “this connection is flimsy at best. It’s entirely possible that... that my years are catching up with me. I may be seeing connections where there are none to be found.”

Lestrade’s mouth thinned.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” he said softly, “but even at your worst you’re still miles cleverer than the rest of us. Answer me, Sherlock. Were those men innocent?”

“Yes.”

Even from across the room, he could see Lestrade’s visible swallow.

“Amanda Laurens’ husband died in prison a few years back,” Lestrade said, mostly to himself. “I don’t know about James Merchant’s neighbour.”

“He’s still alive,” Sherlock said.

“Can we fix this before it’s too late for him, too?” Lestrade asked. At Sherlock’s silence, he added, “Can we fix this at all?”

“I’m going to try,” Sherlock said quietly. Lestrade stared at him for a long moment.

“Right, then,” he said softly. “Good night, lads.”

Sherlock and John stayed up for a long time after Lestrade retired, but the case was too draining to think about any longer. Sherlock’s own mind was nothing but static; nothing but wheels spinning on a frictionless surface. It was an engine left running with no direction. He had all the information and no conclusions to draw from it, and so John’s idle chat actually provided him with some relief. It was a bit of a distraction, at least, from the buzzing in his mind.

Eventually, their conversation fell into a lull, but their silences were always companionable. Sherlock stood with his drink and moved over to the window, picking out the silhouettes of trees on the darkened property.

“You don’t really need us.”

Sherlock didn’t turn from the window.

“I always need you, John,” he said without turning. He watched John’s reflection in the glass as he took a step closer.

“Not in the way that you used to, I don’t think. You’ve got Stanley.”

Sherlock took a deep swallow of his drink.

“Inspector Hopkins?” he asked, trying to keep his voice carefully neutral. “What’s he got to do with this?”

“Everything, I think.” John perched on the arm of the sofa and crossed his arms, regarding Sherlock carefully. “You don’t do cases like these, Greg’s right. Murder is one thing. Murder you can understand, it’s clear-cut. There’s motive and means. But here... here there is no reason. Rape is whole new level of horrifying. It can’t compute. You always turn these cases down. Except this time. Why?”

“Going by your line of questioning, you already have what you perceive to be the answer,” Sherlock answered stiffly. “There is no need for my own.”

“Stanley came to you personally for this one.”

“He comes to me for a lot of cases. I turn down the ones that are uninteresting.”

“But you don’t find this interesting. I _know_ you, Sherlock. You find this vile.” John glanced away, into the fire. He continued in a softer voice. “And yet... this is important to Stanley. And I believe that what’s important to Stanley is also important to _you.”_

“What makes you say that?” Sherlock asked sharply. John gave him a knowing look, and Sherlock glanced away.

“Come on,” John said gently. “I was your flatmate for over a decade. I think I’ve managed to pick up on a few things. There are very few people you willingly spend any time with, and Stanley is one of them. And you mentored him for a long while.”

John bit the inside of his cheek for a moment.

“I never told you this,” John said finally, “but I think that Victor did you more good than you ever realised. You were a changed man when you came back from taking down Moriarty’s network, and I think it was mostly due to him. He... made you stronger. He centered you. He gave you patience. And when he died... it could have made you snap. But it only made you kind. After everything you had been through... it only made you kind. You’re a good man, Sherlock, and it’s mostly thanks to him.”

Sherlock clamped down on his lower lip, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh and drawing blood. When he had finally managed to wrest control back from his emotions, he murmured, “He was the best part of my life. I don’t know how I’ve managed to bear all these years without him.”

John’s face, in the firelight, was etched with sorrow.

“I do,” he said quietly. “And someday... I hope you’ll realise it, too.”

\----

Sherlock went to sleep in an unfamiliar bed, and he woke with his heart threatening to break free of his ribcage and nausea churning his stomach. He pushed himself into a sitting position and rested his forehead on his bent knees, breathing sharply through his nose. His cheeks were wet and tremors wracked his frame. He twisted his hands into the blankets, trying to bring himself under control.

It had been years since he’d had that awful dream, the one that had plagued him in the months after his return from taking down Moriarty’s network. The details shifted, but the theme was always the same. He was always working on a case in some fashion or another, usually in pursuit of a suspect or on a stakeout, when an unknown assailant tried to take him by surprise. It never succeeded, though, because there was always someone in the shadows, watching Sherlock. Watching _out_ for him.

_ Victor _ .

He always took down the assailant with a quick, clean shot and was gone before Sherlock had a chance to realise what was happening. Sherlock always chased after him, bolting through shadowed rooms or crowded streets, the back of Victor’s head just too many steps out of his reach. Sometimes Victor would dodge around a corner, the back of his heel disappearing out of sight just as Sherlock came upon him. Other times he would run up the stairs in whatever building they happened to be in, his footfalls echoing above Sherlock’s head but Victor nowhere in sight.

Sherlock never caught him and usually woke up in the middle of the chase, wrenched away from the one place left on this Earth where he could see Victor, even if it was nothing more than an imagined silhouette.

He got out of bed and padded into the bathroom, trying to chase the last vestiges of the dream away by splashing cold water onto his face.

Why now? Having gone years without that dream interrupting his rest, and weeks without thinking about Victor’s demise. So why now? And in the middle of this wretched case, too.

_ I think that what’s important to Stanley is also important to you _ .

When Sherlock rose the next morning, it was to discover that he was not the first one awake.

“Morning,” Lestrade greeted when Sherlock ambled into the kitchen, still blinking sleep from his eyes. “Coffee’s already made, if you want some.”

“You’re up obscenely early,” Sherlock muttered as he poured a cup of coffee. “And far too cheerful for this hour of the morning.”

Lestrade snorted.

“It’s the hip,” he said. “Doesn’t allow me much of a lie-in, even if I wanted one.”

Sherlock hummed in response.

“Victor was the same way with his legs. They hurt him if he stayed still for too long,” Sherlock mused. “What are you looking at?”

“Oh. Just this case of yours,” Lestrade said, indicating the papers he had spread out on the table. “I can’t believe I missed it--the connection.”

“The murders were two years apart. There was no reason for anyone to connect them. Even I wouldn’t have thought of it, I admit. Probably.” Sherlock sighed and sat down at the table, across from Lestrade. Lestrade took off his reading glasses and gazed heavily at him for a moment.

“This is starting to get to you, isn’t it?” he said finally.

“I won’t be sorry when it’s over,” Sherlock said. Lestrade nodded.

“Sometimes we put ourselves through hell for the ones we care about,” he said softly, “so that they don’t have to go through it alone. Stanley is lucky to have you.”

Sherlock grimaced and took a hot swallow of coffee.

“I assure you, that’s not what’s happening –”

“Sherlock, why didn’t you leave London with us?” Lestrade interrupted quietly. “We wanted you to come with when we moved out here, remember?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said quietly, for it had been a tempting offer that he struggled to turn down. He did miss them both--terribly, in fact, some days.

“I haven’t heard you speak Victor’s name out loud in years,” Lestrade said, “and yet you did so just now. Did it hurt, thinking of him?”

“I – of course,” Sherlock said, taken aback.

“As much as did all those years ago?”

_ Shit _ .

“You found someone who made the pain tolerable. You found someone to bear it with you,” Lestrade went on. “You stayed in London for _him_ , Sherlock. Don’t you think it’s time you admitted that to yourself?”

“Greg, I -”   Sherlock broke off and swallowed hard. Everything was much too bright all of a sudden, much too loud. The kettle for John’s tea was just beginning to whistle; the silence around it was thunderous.

“Hey.”

Lestrade touched his wrist, and Sherlock jerked away reflexively.

“Sorry,” he muttered, coming back to himself abruptly. He crossed his arms tightly across his chest, fending off an imaginary chill and a very real shudder.

“What is it, lad?”

Sherlock’s throat worked for several minutes, swallowing hard, trying to force down his reflex to scream at the wretchedness of it all.

“I miss him,” he croaked finally. “I miss him so much, it’s agony sometimes. And there’s a part of me - it’s irrational -”

“There’s a part of you that always wonders if he’s still out there,” Lestrade said softly.  “It’s almost cruel, you know, what Victor did to you. He faked his death the first time in order to watch over you. And now every close call, every fortunate save - you think it’s him. Always. He took away any chance you have of closure.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock hissed. “Don’t you dare blame him for this. He never intended for it to end so badly. He was only trying - he was doing the best he could, don’t you see? He sacrificed _everything_. He went to his grave believing he was going to burn and terrified his sacrifice had all been for nothing, and I never said - I never told him -  _damn it.”_

Sherlock pressed his palms against his burning eyes. The chair across from him creaked as Lestrade got to his feet.

“He knew,” Lestrade said quietly, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “He knew you loved him, Sherlock; it didn’t need to be said.”

“How do you know?” Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth. “How do _I_ know?”

“Because I saw it,” Lestrade said softly, “every time you looked at him. I heard it every time you said his name. I know, because he died to keep you safe, and he didn’t regret a minute of it. I know, because you were his whole world--and he was yours. If I could see it plain as day, Sherlock, then so could he.”

From above their heads, there came the sound of floorboards creaking. Sherlock swallowed hard several times and Lestrade kept a firm grip on his shoulder. 

“But you can’t let a dead man dictate how you live your life now,” Lestrade said, his words still hushed. “Victor is gone. Stanley isn’t.”

Sherlock gave a wordless nod, and Lestrade let go of his shoulder. By the time John came into the kitchen ten minutes later, Sherlock had composed himself and Lestrade was reading the paper.

Neither of them spoke of Hopkins again for the rest of Sherlock’s stay.

\----

John and Lestrade were early risers. Sherlock tended to be as well, but whenever he was on holiday he found that he had a habit of not getting out of bed before seven, and sometimes even lingering there until eight. 

He didn’t rise one morning until close to nine, and even then it was only because Ajax stole into his room and joined him on the bed. 

“I don’t appreciate your company as much as you seem to think that I do,” Sherlock grumbled to him, but he scratched the dog behind his ears anyway, and Ajax closed his eyes on contentment. Sherlock gave a soft sigh as the dog flopped on his side and cuddled up to him. “But I do know someone who would. You’d like him, too. He’s very –”

Sherlock cut himself off before he finished the sentence, but his brain filled it in for him anyway. _Kind_. Hopkins was always kind. 

The scent of Lestrade’s coffee was strong this morning, and Sherlock smelled it even from the stairwell as he trudged down from the upper storey. Ajax plodded after him, and they both made for the kitchen. 

“ – supposed to give Tom a call this afternoon, he’s _dying_ to tell you all about this girl he met in one of his classes.”

Greg gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Oh, that sounds like my nephew. Wooing the girls even in his very first year at uni!”

“No one says _wooing_ anymore, I hope you realise that.”

Sherlock paused in the corridor just outside the kitchen, in a patch of shadows he knew concealed his presence. He could still see into the cozy room, though, and for a time watched John and Lestrade going about their morning business. John was leaning against the counter and nursing a cup of tea while Lestrade cooked some eggs, his own cup of coffee sitting untouched on the table in the middle of the room. They spoke in low, conversational voices, and their words weren’t always audible above the sizzling food. 

“ – bookcase you’ve been building looks fantastic. Katherine’s going to love it.”

John slid an arm around Lestrade’s waist and propped his chin on his husband’s shoulder. Lestrade looked back at him, one eyebrow raised in silent query, and John kissed him. 

Sherlock withdrew to the main room, leaving them their privacy. For the first time, he was aware of a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, one that had pained him greatly in the first few years following Victor’s death but which had been largely absent in recent years. 

_ You’re lonely _ , Victor would have pointed out reasonably. He had been Sherlock’s guiding compass long before John, able to interpret the emotions Sherlock would rather have ignored.

“And what do you propose I do about that?” Sherlock muttered bitterly. “S’all your fault, you know.”

_ No, it’s not _ . 

Sherlock dug out his mobile and stared at it for a moment, brushing his thumb across the screen. 

“No,” he said quietly, “it’s not.”

_It’s snowing here_ , he typed into the message box. He spent ten minutes debating the wording and content of the message, and finally hit send before he had a chance to second-guess himself completely.

Hopkins’ response was almost immediate.

_ I’m jealous. No snow here. How are things? _

_ Fine _ , Sherlock tapped out. He could think of nothing more to say, and sent the mono-syllabic message alone. 

Hopkins wrote back anyway.

_ It’s Tuesday _ , he said. _Angelo missed seeing you._

_ We’ll eat there when I get back. No takeaway for at least a week.  _

_ An actual meal in an actual restaurant? Sherlock Holmes, you spoil me. _

_ Shut up.  _

He imagined Hopkins’ laughter, and wished that he could hear it.

_ Christmas party is on the 27th _ , Hopkins wrote after a few minutes of silence.

Sherlock typed back, _I don’t go to the Christmas party._

_ I know _ , Hopkins replied. _Just thought you’d like to know the date._

_ Thanks. _

He’d had a standing invitation to the Yard’s Christmas party every year for the past fifteen Christmases. He had never attended any of them, spending the holiday either with his mother or with John and Lestrade. But this was a tradition, of a sort. Hopkins always made sure to invite Sherlock, and Sherlock always declined. What purpose the ritual served, Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure. But it was good to hear from Hopkins nonetheless, and even more heartening to know that the other man had been thinking of him. 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice drifted out from the kitchen. “There’s some more coffee ready, if you want some.”

“And eggs!” Lestrade added.

“No, those are _not_ eggs. In fact, I’m not even certain they’re fit for human consumption.”

“Good thing I married a doctor, then, isn’t it?”

Sherlock snorted and pushed himself to his feet. He joined his friends in the kitchen, Ajax on his heels and his melancholy alleviated for the time being.

 

\----

Christmas came and passed in relative peace. John and Lestrade had long ago come to some sort of mutual understanding that Sherlock wasn’t to be alone on this particular holiday. Over the years they had dragged him to their own respective sides of the family for Christmas dinner, or they threw a large and boisterous party in Baker Street and invited more guests than the flat had room to hold.

Whatever the case was, Sherlock was never alone on the twenty-fifth—the anniversary of Victor’s death. And though he had never quite found the correct words to tell John and Lestrade, he was distinctly grateful for their efforts. He didn’t know--he didn’t _want_ to know--what the day would be like if it was forced to endure it alone. The silence would be thunderous, he imagined, and with nothing to distract him from the memories of Victor’s last moments, there was no telling what he might do.

This year, Lestrade and John elected to spend Christmas Day at home. They had visited Lestrade’s sister and her family earlier in the month, and they would be seeing John’s a few days after the holiday. And so it was just the three of them as Christmas dawned, sitting in the main room and nursing respective cups of coffee, watching as Ajax played with a new toy.

Sherlock felt a momentary pang as he surveyed the scene. This was what he could have had if he had chosen to follow John and Lestrade five years ago. He would have this serenity--this companionship--always.

But then his thoughts drifted to another--another person, another home, another companion--and Sherlock knew it wouldn’t have been enough.

_ Happy Christmas _ , he typed out later on, once John and Lestrade had gone to bed.

The response came almost immediately.

_ Happy Christmas, old man.  _

And later, as Sherlock was getting ready to retire for the evening:

_ Wish you were here. _

\----

It was customary for Sherlock to spend a good portion of December with John and Lestrade. He typically traveled to their new home--though they had been living there for five years now, so it technically wasn’t _new_ anymore--around the middle of the month, and had a habit of staying there through the New Year. He had abbreviated last year’s trip because of Lestrade’s weakened state; even though he had been cured of the illness, he was easily exhausted and not at all up to entertaining company for an extended period of time, even if it was only Sherlock.

This year should have been different. They had started discussing plans back in September, and it was decided that Sherlock would spend nearly a month with John and Lestrade, to make up for last year and for the fact that he hadn’t been able to visit them even once in the intervening months.

But Sherlock couldn’t shake the feeling of incompleteness that had been plaguing him during the few days leading up to Christmas, and a day’s contemplation led him to the inevitable conclusion that he couldn’t stay here any longer—not when there was somewhere else he needed to be. 

“You’re leaving early, aren’t you?”

Sherlock looked up from the sugar he was stirring into his coffee to see John standing in the kitchen. John didn’t look displeased; in fact, it appeared as though he had expected this. Sherlock didn’t know whether to be impressed with him or insulted.

“I’m afraid so,” Sherlock said. “I’m sorry, John, but I have business to attend to.”

“This case really got to you, hasn’t it?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s not the case,” he said. “Well - yes, the case is part of it. But.... plans have come up.”

John arched an eyebrow at him.

“Plans,” he repeated blankly.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“What kind of... plans?”

Sherlock pulled a face.

“A social engagement I am obligated to attend,” he said, and hoped John would assume that Mycroft had bullied him into something again. “Will you pass along my regrets to Lestrade?”

John laughed and waved his words away.

“Oh, he’ll understand. It’s for a good cause, after all.”

Sherlock had no idea what John meant by that, but couldn’t be bothered to press.

“When can we expect you back?” John went on.

“The springtime, I assume. It depends on the case.”

“Just let us know. Oh, and the blue shirt.”

“What?” Sherlock was already halfway out of his seat. John smirked.

“The blue shirt,” he repeated. “When you go to the Yard’s Christmas party tonight, wear the blue shirt. The one you had to buy four years ago after you set your arm on fire.”

“But that shirt -” Sherlock stopped; paused. “I didn’t say I was going to the Christmas party.”  
                                                                                                                           
John’s smirk became, if possible, even more smug.

“I know,” he said. And then he _winked_. “The blue shirt. And tell Stanley we say hello.”


	8. Chapter 8

The earliest train to London arrived late in the afternoon on the twenty-seventh, and by the time Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street the party at the Yard had already got underway.

But the annual Christmas party had a tendency to run into the early hours of the morning, anyway, and even if Sherlock were to show up three hours late it was doubtful that he would miss much. 

He showered, washing away the scent of travel that clung to him, and changed into black trousers and his customary purple shirt. He had owned some variation of a purple shirt since he was eighteen, and at the height of his days as the Great Detective he had been photographed wearing it so many times that it became synonymous with his name – as did the deerstalker hat, unfortunately, even though he had only ever donned that once. 

But he wasn’t the Great Detective – not tonight; not in a very long time. 

Sherlock went back into his room and changed into the deep blue shirt John had suggested, the one that was so dark that it appeared almost black in dim lighting. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what this was meant to accomplish—or, at least, he wouldn’t allow himself to contemplate it for too long—but he hoped that, whatever it was, John was right about it. 

 

One of the large meeting rooms on the ground floor of the Yard had been converted into tonight’s party venue. A bar had been set up along one of the far walls, and a long table was filled with non-alcoholic drinks and more food than the entire Yard could eat in a week. Paper snowflakes hung suspended from the ceiling, and a live band set up in one corner was serenading an empty dance floor and a few tables that were filled with the party’s earliest arrivals. 

Sally Donovan was standing on a ladder in another corner, affixing the final decorations to the ceiling, and she jumped when Sherlock tapped her leg. 

“Jesus Christ,” she cursed violently, and then she blinked down at him. “You’re here.”

“Yes.”

“What are _you_ doing here?”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at her. “I was _invited,_ Sally.”

She came down off the ladder and stood before him, her arms crossed. 

“Yeah, but you’re always invited,” she pointed out. “You’ve been invited to every Christmas party for the past fifteen years. You _never_ come.”

“Well, I’m here now, so I rather think that statement needs to be revised. I _almost_ never come.” Sherlock scanned the room. “Where’s Hopkins?”

Sally rolled her eyes.

“Not here,” she said unhelpfully. 

“Obvious. Office?”

“Probably.”

Sherlock glared at her. “He _does_ come to this, correct?”

She gave a shrug. “In the loosest sense of the term, yes. He comes long enough to order a beer and then disappears again. Unless I can blackmail him into staying for longer than that, but he hates every minute of it.”

“He’s never been one for crowds,” Sherlock mused to himself. Sally blinked at him. 

“Tell you what,” she said. “Get him down here for at least some of the party—I don’t care how little—and I’ll pay you twenty-five quid. If he refuses, you owe _me_ twenty-five.”

It had been a while since Sherlock had faced a real challenge—well, a challenge outside of this excruciating case, at least---and he considered it for a moment.

“Done,” he said finally. “See you again soon, Sergeant.”

“In your dreams, Holmes.”

 

Hopkins was, exactly as Sally had predicted, in his office. 

His head was bent low over an open file, and he had the end of a pen caught between his teeth. He chewed on it contemplatively for a moment before scribbling down a note in the margin of one of the documents he was looking at.

“Unless I’ve understood the invitation incorrectly--which, I assure you, I haven’t--the party is elsewhere.”

Hopkins’ head snapped up, startled, and Sherlock suppressed a groan. He thought he had given Hopkins ample warning that he was approaching this time. Evidently, that was not the case.

“Sherlock,” Hopkins said, and then stopped. He stared at Sherlock, unblinking, for several long seconds, his lips parted. Sherlock resisted the urge to look down at himself--he knew his outfit was nothing short of pristine--and instead lifted an eyebrow at Hopkins.

“Hopkins,” he said sharply, and Hopkins blinked.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking himself. “Er - how was your trip?”

“Uneventful,” Sherlock said, and though Hopkins’ face remained impassive the light behind his eyes faded.

“I see,” he said, attempting to mask his disappointment. “I take it that means that they were unable to shed any light on things?”

“Not on the case, no,” Sherlock said before he could stop himself, and at Hopkins’ quizzical look he said quickly, “Never mind. Lestrade sends his regards, by the way.”

Hopkins took a long swallow from a nearby mug.

“How’s he doing?” he asked.

Sherlock considered this for a moment.

“Well,” he said finally. “He appears to have responded well to treatment. We didn’t spend a lot of time talking about it, however.”

“I suppose that’s some good news, though.” Hopkins looked weary, and Sherlock suddenly began to feel regret at having come tonight. He had no good news to report, not really, and Hopkins appeared as though he could use some. His shoulders were hunched and stubble shadowed his jaw, the result of him having neglected his daily ministrations for some time now.

“Was your holiday... satisfactory?” The words felt alien on Sherlock’s tongue, and he had no idea what possessed him to ask the question in the first place.

“Hm? Oh, yes, fine,” Hopkins said absently. “Nothing spectacular. I worked. How was yours?”

“It was... quiet,” Sherlock said finally, deciding that was the best--and most neutral--response that he could give. It was a far sight better, at least, than the truth that was slowly starting to take shape in his mind now that he and Hopkins were in the same room again; a truth that, before now, had merely been a nebulous and indistinct feeling. But now it had words, too, that accompanied it.

_ I missed you _ .

Hopkins was looking at him, his face blank, eyes withdrawn and mouth creased at the edges. Sherlock swallowed, feeling at once out-of-place and  _wrong_. He had never before felt this way in Hopkins’ presence; he had never felt as though he didn’t belong. This was an alien feeling, and it burned away in his chest.

“Apologies,” he managed at last. “I shouldn’t have come -”

But Hopkins reached across the desk and closed a hand on his elbow just as Sherlock got up to try to leave.

“No,” he said abruptly, his words too quick. Sherlock turned to look at him, and he dropped his hand. “I’m sorry, it’s just - this case. The work. This holiday. It’s all horrendous timing. I haven’t had a day off in weeks, this case is horrifying, and my house feels too big sometimes. Too empty. Especially around the New Year. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m just... tired. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want -”

He broke off, uncertain.

“But that doesn’t mean that I’m not glad to see you,” he said finally. “I am. Stay, please.”

Sherlock nodded, and Hopkins gave a shadow of a smile. He turned to shut his computer off, but in the moment that their gazes met, Sherlock saw a brief flicker in his grey eyes, equal parts hope and relief, a mirror of Sherlock’s own unspoken feelings.

_ I missed you, too _ .

“I have to admit,” Hopkins said as he set his laptop aside, affecting a light tone, “ I wasn’t expecting to see you before January, mate.”

“You _did_ invite me.”

“I always invite you.” Hopkins’ mouth quirked. “Bad habit.”

“So is this, I gather.” Sherlock gestured to the obvious signs of work scattered across Hopkins’ desk. “Is this how you spend the Christmas party every year?”

“It’s not exactly my holiday.”

“You have a Christmas tree at home.”

“And three menorahs, as well as a mezuzah on the door. What do you want me to say?”

Sherlock paused. “Three?”

Hopkins shrugged.

“My mother went through a phase back when David and I first married. Got us everything a good Jewish household should have, never mind the fact that neither of us were practicing.”

“You still go to temple.”

“Once a year, to atone for my sins. You should consider doing the same.”

Sherlock sat down in front of the desk and propped his feet on the polished wood. Hopkins scowled, but for once didn’t knock his feet away.

“I doubt attending services of any kind could convince me that there’s a higher power.”

Hopkins snorted.

“If you go to a worship service looking for proof of a deity, you’re doing it wrong. Faith is something you have, not something you should be searching for constant confirmation of.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“You don’t believe.”

“No. But I can appreciate tradition and ritual. And I have many things to atone for--not for the sake of a higher power, but for my own.” Hopkins leaned back in his chair, regarding Sherlock carefully. “But you didn’t come here for a theology discussion.”

“I came here for a party, which you are neglecting to give me,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, please. Sherlock Holmes wants to attend a party? When the Earth stops spinning, maybe, but not a moment before.”

“I’ve been known to party,” Sherlock said, attempting to sound indignant and failing miserably. Hopkins smirked at him.

“You’ve been known to _attend_ them. When forced. And when you do, you stand in a corner with the same drink all night and sulk.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Well, I’m here now,” he said. “I came here for a party, and I expect you to give me one.”

Hopkins sobered. “I’m working.”

Sherlock glanced at the papers scattered across the desk. He caught sight of a familiar crime scene photograph.

“On the case?” he asked. “It’s been months since the last abduction.”

“That doesn’t mean that the case goes away.”

“I wasn’t implying that it did,” Sherlock said. “Hopkins, there’s been no new information. There is very little you can do for it this night, and from this room.”

Hopkins crossed his ankle over his knee and rubbed his forehead.

“At least it feels like I’m doing something,” he said. “I can’t just... sit here.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked. “You are expending time and energy on something that will get you nowhere. It’s foolish and irrational. Come downstairs.”

Hopkins looked at him as though he’d grown two heads.

“Why do you care so much?” he asked. “What does it matter whether I’m there or not?”

_ You’re the only reason I’m here _ , Sherlock almost said, and it startled him how quickly that thought came to mind. 

“I have good money on you making an appearance,” he said smoothly instead. “It’s been five years since I last won a bet against Sergeant Donovan; I intend to break that streak tonight. Come on.”

Hopkins stared at him for a beat, and then let out a sharp bark of laughter.

“All right, old man,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll go. Anything to help you keep up your reputation, or whatever. But _one_ drink, and then I’m out of there.”

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was even going to make it through one drink.

The party, which had started three hours ago now, was just now hitting its stride. The dance floor was crowded, the music was loud, and the various white-clothed tables scattered around the room were full of attendees taking a break between dances. The noise in the room had reached a deafening level, as everyone around them was trying to make themselves heard above the music and each other.

His only consolation was that Hopkins appeared to be as put off as he.

“Jesus Christ,” Hopkins muttered as he surveyed the crowded room. They were over by the bar, having found a spot to stand at the end of the long counter. Hopkins was on his second beer; Sherlock had barely touched his cocktail. The noise and visual stimulation combined were beginning to give him a headache.

Donovan appeared out of the crowd at Hopkins’ elbow, startling him.

“Honestly, Hopkins,” Sherlock huffed, grabbing a napkin and tossing it down on top of the beer that had sloshed over Hopkins’ glass and onto the bar.

“Sorry, sir,” Donovan said apologetically. She slapped some money down onto the counter by Sherlock’s elbow. “Here, Holmes.”

“Thanks, Donovan. Better luck next time.”

“Hey, if the only way I can get this one out of his office is by paying you, I think I can handle it,” she said dryly. “Carry on, gentlemen.”

She gave them both a two-fingered salute and dove back into the crowd, surfacing some seconds later on the arm of a fellow sergeant whose name Sherlock could never remember.

“Huh.” Hopkins stared after her for a moment, and then took a long swallow of his beer. “I thought you’d made that up.”

“Hmm? Oh, no.”

“And here I thought you actually wanted to spend time with me,” Hopkins said dryly.

“Would knowing that have got you to come down here?”

“You know what, old man?” Hopkins said absently, his eyes still on the dance floor. “It might have, at that.”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“Right, sod this,” he said suddenly. He pushed Donovan’s money across the bar and signaled the bartender. “Two more of what he’s having. Hopkins, finish your drink.”

Sherlock knocked back the remainder of his drink while Hopkins downed his beer. The bartender brought them fresh drinks, and Sherlock grabbed his.

“Going somewhere?”

“Yeah. Back to your office. Come on.”

 

Once they were safely sheltered in his office, Hopkins flipped on his music player. Sherlock groaned at the very first note.

“You are _not_ going to subject me to this drivel again.”

“It’s classic rock, not drivel, and you could do with someone expanding your musical tastes. Which, last time I checked, hovered right around zero.”

Sherlock took a long swallow of his beer. It was a refreshing change after his earlier drink, and it went down easily. He probably shouldn’t have got it - one drink was about his limit, and this beer alone was probably the equivalent of two - but he couldn’t bring himself to care much.

This was, after all, a party.

“I happen to have excellent musical tastes.”

“It’s all - it’s all _Puchalini_ , or something.”

“Puccini. And you call yourself homosexual.”

“I didn’t realise there were requirements. Other than, you know, the obvious.” Hopkins put his feet on his desk and slid down in his seat, holding his drink balanced on his stomach and resting his head against the low back of the chair. He stared sightlessly out of the window, at the view that would have been spectacular if not for the building across the way.

“Cigarette?” Sherlock asked. He dropped his feet to the floor and leaned over Hopkins’ desk in order to pop out the top drawer and grab the packet he knew Hopkins stashed there.

Hopkins shook his head. “Best not. I think I had four of those before you came.”

Sherlock lit himself a cigarette and put the rest away. He leaned back in his seat again, matching Hopkins’ posture, and blew a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“What is it about this case that’s getting to you?” he asked finally.

“Besides the obvious?”

“Besides the obvious.”

Hopkins shook his head.

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” he said finally. “I really don’t. I’ve not really had experience with unknown victims before. It’s - look, I’m younger than you, and I’m a late-comer to the Met. It’s not something I ever really had to deal with, not once the national registry was implemented. And...”

He trailed off.

“And I’m not used to victims who don’t have anyone left behind to grieve them. No one’s going to miss them, and I can’t stand that. Isn’t that absurd?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

“No, I don’t believe it is.”

“You don’t feel that way.”

Sherlock felt his lips twist into a wry smile. “I don’t feel many things the way others do. I’m a poor gauge of what is proper and good, Hopkins, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Don’t say that,” Hopkins said gruffly. He took a quick swallow of beer. “You’re the best man I know.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock said before he could stop himself. He tried to soften his tone. “I appreciate your confidence in me. But I am far from good.”

“I don’t think you get to be the judge of that.” Hopkins’ tone was harsh. “You’ve always been good to me. Maybe not always kind, but good. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“And you give me far too much. You’re biased. Of course it appears to you that I am good.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock gave a wry smirk. “Haven’t you noticed that I show a certain favour towards those whose company I like to keep? I enjoy your presence, Hopkins. I... appreciate the friendship you offer. Things I won’t do for others... I’d do for you.”

Hopkins was gaping at him, rather comically, and Sherlock would have found this amusing if it were any other situation. But he was acutely aware that everything carried with it a tinge of unreality, and that he had revealed far more than he’d intended. It all seemed very remote right now, as though it had happened to someone else, but he had a feeling he would regret having been so open once he sobered up in the morning.

But the morning seemed a very long way off right now.

Sherlock got up out of his seat to fetch his mobile, which he had left in the pocket of his coat. It was hanging on the rack in the corner of the room now, probably courtesy of Hopkins as they had left for the party not an hour earlier. But before Sherlock reached the coat he paused, his attention drawn by an unfamiliar object sitting in the back corner of the office.

Behind him, he heard Hopkins give a weary sigh.

“You weren’t supposed to see that just yet,” he said in resignation.

Sherlock walked over to the tank that was sitting in the corner of the room. The lights were off, save for the dim lamp sitting on Hopkins’ desk, and he could barely make out its contents. But he knew enough to hazard a guess at what he was looking at.

“Poison dart frog,” he murmured, taken aback. He never thought he would get a chance to see one in real life, not after the massive restrictions that had been placed on their sale and breeding thirteen years ago. “Interesting. Where did you get this?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m going to tell you that,” Hopkins said, an audible smirk in his voice. He got to his feet and joined Sherlock by the tank. “Got to keep some secrets to myself, don’t I?”

“But - Hopkins, how did you get one?” Sherlock bent at the waist to peer into the tank, still stunned. “These are incredibly rare nowadays -”

“ - which is why you’ve been dying to get your hands on one for ages.” Hopkins folded his arms over his chest, sounding smug. “So I decided to give you a bit of help.”

Sherlock straightened.

“What?”

“That’s for _you_ , idiot,” Hopkins said fondly. “I told you I wasn’t expecting you back until well after Christmas. You usually stay out with John and Greg until sometime in January. This is what you get for popping in on me unannounced - you just spoiled your birthday gift.”

“My - Hopkins -” Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d been rendered speechless. He cleared his throat, searching for words. “I – thought we agreed that you weren’t to observe that occasion.”

“You’re turning fifty, old man. You think I’m going to let the opportunity to remind you of that pass me by?” Hopkins clapped him on the shoulder. “And anyway, I’m giving it to you now, so it’s not really a birthday gift, is it? It’s not even a Christmas gift. It’s more of a – well. It’s more of a thank-God-you-lived-to-be-this-old present.”

He cleared his throat, and added quietly, “Because I don’t really know where I’d be without you.”

Sherlock straightened. Hopkins’ hand dropped from his shoulder, but Sherlock caught him by the wrist.  He felt the steady thud of Hopkins’ pulse beneath his fingers, and the grey eyes that met his were perplexed. 

“Sherlock,” Hopkins whispered, and it was half a question. His breath smelled of beer and cinnamon, and Sherlock fought to suppress a shudder. 

“Stanley, I –” He stopped and tried to swallow past a sandpaper-dry throat. Hopkins’ pulse quickened beneath Sherlock’s fingers, and his own heart stumbled against his ribcage.

There were only centimeters between them. Sherlock’s gaze flicked to Hopkins’ lips and then back up to his eyes, and then he leaned in, his mind going blissfully blank as his breath stilled in his chest – 

– And the phone on Hopkins’ desk started to trill . 

Hopkins jerked backwards in surprise and Sherlock dropped his wrist, startled. They stood there for a moment, chests heaving, staring at one another in surprise while the phone continued to ring.

“Shit,” Hopkins muttered finally when the third ring of the phone tore him out of his shocked stare. He strode over to his desk and practically dove across it for the device. “Stanley Hopkins. I – well, it’s – yeah, okay, I’ll be right there.”

He rang off and turned to Sherlock.

“That’s, uh, well, another one of our cases,” he said, stumbling over his words. Sherlock didn’t think he could recall Hopkins ever being flustered before, and seeing it now was disconcerting. “Are you – can you –?”

“I’ll be all right getting home,” Sherlock said, waving away his concern. “Go.”

Hopkins paused on the threshold.

“I’m glad you came, old man,” he said quietly. “Er… Don’t forget your frog.”

He was gone before Sherlock could reply.

\----

A blanket of white covered the cemetery, and snow capped the standing tombstones like a thin layer of frosting. Sherlock had to dig out Victor’s grave, it had been so long since he’d visited.

“Apologies,” he said quietly when the stone was finally exposed and Victor’s name saw daylight for the first time in months. “I’m sorry it’s been so long, old friend. I –”

He broke off, trying to gather his thoughts. 

“I visited John and Lestrade,” he said. “They’re doing well. The puppy’s full-grown, now. They’ve named him Ajax. I don’t remember if I ever said.”

Sherlock paused, regret sitting heavy in his chest.

“But that’s not the only reason why I’ve been gone for so long. I’ve been distracted,” he admitted finally. “The case – we’re making no progress. We found victims dating back to Lestrade’s time, and we’re still no closer to pinning down a killer. And Stanley – _Hopkins_ , I mean – hasn’t been dealing with it well.”

Sherlock brushed a few stray flakes of snow away from Victor’s name, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt. It was one thing to be so familiar with Stanley in person, but to slip up in front of Victor…

But he wasn’t, not really. Victor wasn’t here anymore, and he never would be again. 

“It seems I talk only about Hopkins when I come here,” Sherlock murmured. “I wish it were otherwise. I wish you were here. I’d talk to you, if I could. All the time.”

Sherlock lifted his gaze, looking out across the snow-covered grounds, narrowing his eyes against the brightness. The dim winter sun reflecting off the snow made the grounds as bright as they were on a summer’s day, perhaps even more so, and the light stung his eyes. It was a very different visage from the one fifteen years ago. Victor had been buried on a sunless, snowless winter day. The cemetery had been brown and the sky ashen, and the entire world was dull.

“You’ve been gone fifteen years now,” he said softly. “Much too long.”

Fifteen years he’d been without his lover; his beacon of light. It seemed like an eternity.

He thought of his dreams, then, the ones where Victor was always just out of reach, existing just beyond his periphery. He closed his eyes and swallowed. They were dreams, nothing more, and had no basis in reality. He _knew_ that. There was no way Victor could have survived that second death, and no way he could have kept it from Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to rid himself of the images of the dreams. Victor was dead; he was gone forever.

But Hopkins was not.

\----

Hopkins called on Sherlock again on New Year’s Eve, but this time the case was a different one.

“We’ve got a body ten minutes from Baker Street,” he said when Sherlock answered the phone. “Fancy taking a look?”

Sherlock didn’t even bother asking whether the murder was interesting or not, and was out the door without even pausing to consider it.

The dead man was lying with his face turned to the sky, his cloudy blue eyes mere chips of ice settled in hollows in his porcelain face. Snow clung to his hair and settled on his lips, which were slightly parted. He looked perpetually surprised.

“Who found him?” Sherlock asked as he knelt by the body. One of Hopkins’ sergeants answered.

“A passerby, sir. He’d been here for at least six hours before that.”

“ _Obviously,”_ Sherlock muttered under his breath. He hadn’t been called  _sir_ in a very long time, and the term always grated on his nerves. It spoke of intimidation and inexperience, two things which Sherlock had absolutely no patience for. “Where’s Hopkins?”

“Here,” said a weary voice to his right, and Sherlock glanced up to see Hopkins approaching them. “Traffic was a nightmare. What’ve you got?”

“Not much,” Sherlock said, rising to his feet and snapping off his gloves. “Only that your victim has been dead at least six hours, though he was killed elsewhere and brought here to be disposed of. He arrived in the city only this morning; probably came here for business. I’d estimate he was planning on spending no more than two nights here. His name is Michael Travis, according to this plane ticket stub, and from the soil on the bottom of his shoes I’d say he’s from Dublin.”

Hopkins blinked at him for a moment, and then gave a sharp nod.

“Right, you heard him,” he said to his lingering team. “Get in contact with the family, see why he was in London today. Let’s move, people.”

The body was eventually taken to Barts after forensics finished processing the scene. By that time, they had  all been lingering in the cold for nearly two hours, and it was starting to show. Their faces were deadly white; their noses bright red and running. Sherlock had turned up the collar of his coat in an effort to block out some of the wind, and he had shoved his hands into the depths of his pockets. His blue scarf, the one Lestrade had given him at Christmas nearly two decades ago, covered the lower half of his face.

Hopkins’ only concession to the cold was his folding his arms across his chest. The cold air made his eyes bright and chased the colour from his face, but if it bothered him he gave no sign. It was only when a nearby clock tower struck ten that he said, “All right, people. Wrap it up; we’re done here tonight. Get some sleep; we’ll pick it up again in two days.”

There were mumbled farewells and half-hearted New Year’s wishes all around. Eventually, only Sherlock and Hopkins were left standing amidst the remains of the crime scene.

“I’m that way,” Sherlock said finally, nodding in the direction of Baker Street.

Hopkins nodded. “I’ll walk with you.”

They trudged along in silence for several minutes, snow and ice crunching beneath their shoes. Hopkins, who had come to the crime scene straight from the office, nearly slipped and fell several times, as he was wearing his polished work shoes. 

“You didn’t need my help tonight,” Sherlock said at last. Hopkins slid sideways, and Sherlock grabbed his elbow in order to steady him.

“Mm?” Hopkins said, lifting his gaze from the pavement. “Oh. No, not really.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Taking pity on me, are you?” he asked. “I don’t need your charity, Hopkins. I’ve never wanted anything in my life other than to be left alone.”

“Not everyone has that luxury,” Hopkins said wearily. He stifled a yawn against the back of his hand and then said, “And not everything’s about you, Sherlock. Sometimes it’s nice to see a friendly face when you’re spending your holiday gathered around a corpse. That’s all.”

Sherlock went quiet, and they continued to walk.

“Oh, damn,” Hopkins said suddenly, coming to a halt. Sherlock stopped.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“Nothing, it’s just - I parked over that way.” Hopkins jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I completely forgot. Sorry, mate.”

He turned to go.

“Hopkins,” Sherlock said suddenly, and he wasn’t sure what possessed him to call the man back, except for the sudden hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach at the prospect of Hopkins’ departure. Hopkins paused.

“Yeah?”

He was standing in a pool of lamplight, and the golden glow only highlighted the bags under his eyes and the uneven growth of his stubble. His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets and what was visible of the front of his shirt was rumpled. He looked as though he had not slept properly in days, and hadn’t eaten well in longer.

Sherlock inclined his head, indicating a pub across the street.

“Unless you have somewhere you need to be?” he asked.

Hopkins let out an unexpected huff of laughter.

“You know very well that I don’t. Fancy a pint, then?”

The pub was crowded, though not as much as Sherlock had feared, and they were able to secure a table in a far corner of the room. Hopkins ordered their first round, and both of them opted for beer.

“I thought you preferred scotch,” Hopkins commented as Sherlock took a tentative swallow of his drink.

“Normally, yes,” Sherlock said. “But not tonight.”

He refrained from mentioning that he had been avoiding scotch ever since Weymouth, and the start of his unsettling dreams about Victor. That had been their shared drink back at university, and the mere smell of it had a tendency to transport Sherlock decades and miles away, back to when he and Victor would sit together in armchairs before a fire, reading and drinking, Victor’s hand resting on Sherlock’s knee. Even when Victor stopped drinking, he continued to fix Sherlock his _scotch, neat_ , and would join him before the fire, as was their usual evening ritual.

They spoke little for a while after that, Hopkins’ attention drawn to the television screens mounted on the walls that depicted various New Year’s celebrations around the globe while Sherlock found himself gazing at the crowd around them. There was no one of particular interest, but he did manage to keep himself occupied for the better part of an hour by deducing the various life histories of those around them.

Eventually, Hopkins dragged his attention back to Sherlock. He took a long swallow of his beer, and then regarded Sherlock thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. 

“Do you remember those thought exercises we used to do?” Hopkins asked finally. “Back when you were instructing me in your science of deduction.”

Sherlock nodded. They had used to come here, in fact, to this very pub. Sherlock would point out a patron and tell Hopkins to draw as many conclusions about them as he could, simply from observation. Hopkins had caught on quickly, helped along by his personal fascination with the whole thing.

“If we were doing one of those now,” Hopkins went on, slowly, “I’d say that, from looking at you... something happened when you were out in Weymouth. And that it has to do with Victor.”

“What makes you say that?” Sherlock said, his voice carefully neutral.

“Besides the fact that you answered my question with a question, thereby confirming my suspicions?” Hopkins’ smirk faded quickly, and he took another swallow of beer. “That first night you were back, when I asked you how your holiday had been – the first thing you did before you answered was touch that medal.”

He was referring to the Saint Christopher medal, the one Sherlock wore around his neck.

“What of it?” Sherlock asked softly.

“I know it was his,” Hopkins said quietly. He plucked a chip off his plate and munched on it for a few moments, thinking. “The only time you ever touch it is when you’re deep in thought--or when you’re talking about him. You always look to him for guidance, or for answers. I knew something had happened that reminded you of him--or had to do with him directly--because you kept fiddling with it while we were talking.”

_ Oh, if only you knew _ .

“Victor died on Christmas Day, and I buried him on the first,” Sherlock said at last, when the silence became expectant. It wasn’t entirely related to his trip, but it was at least a partial truth and one that Hopkins would likely accept without question. “Needless to say, this time of year doesn’t hold many fond memories for me.”

Hopkins’ face twisted in sympathy for a moment.

“No, I suspect not,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I.” Sherlock dropped his gaze to the depths of his drink. 

Hopkins took a long, thoughtful swallow of his drink and stared at one of the television screens for a moment. And then, with his eyes still fixed on the screen, he said, “I think I’d have liked to meet him.”

“Victor?”

Hopkins nodded.

“You don’t often take the company of anyone, at least not willingly,” he said. “I’m curious about anyone who could have commanded  your attention so easily, and for so long.”

“If you’re that curious about it,” Sherlock said, mostly without thinking, “you need only look in a mirror.”

They locked eyes for a moment, Hopkins’ surprised while Sherlock’s were unwavering, and then looked away from one another. The drink was making them careless, as were the giddy New Year’s celebrations happening around them. Everything felt far removed from real life, as though they were existing in a tiny pocket of the universe that was theirs alone, and which would have no bearing on reality they woke in the morning.

“You probably would have  disliked Victor,” Sherlock said finally as Hopkins signaled for another round. He smiled to himself at the thought of the imaginary meeting. “You’d have found him pretentious, I think.”

“Oh?” Hopkins gave a tentative smile. “And was he?”

Sherlock quickly sobered.

“No,” he said quietly. “Victor was every bit as brilliant as he thought he was. He didn’t need to affect an attitude in order to impress others--it was entirely real.”

“It would have to be,” Hopkins said, “for you to have any interest in him. You don’t suffer fools.”

“Neither did he,” Sherlock said. He stared at Hopkins for a moment. “I think... he may have grown to like you. After a time. At first, he would have simply found you... bland and ordinary.”

Hopkins snorted.

“Is this Victor talking now, or you?” he teased gently. “I believe it’s you who found me dull at our first meeting.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“No. On the contrary.” He shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of his surroundings despite the alcohol coursing through his veins that had made him both oblivious and open thus far. “The fact that I couldn’t remember your name for the life of me had no bearing on how interesting you were. I - you must remember, Stanley, that when we met... I had buried my lover just two months prior. I wouldn’t have noticed a pterodactyl falling from the sky, I was so numb. But I - I noticed you. Even... even if it didn’t seem that way. I may not have noted your name at our first few meetings, but I remembered _you_.”

A crease formed between Hopkins’ brows.

“Why?” he blurted.

Sherlock snorted. “Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?”

Hopkins shook his head.

“You came to Baker Street with Lestrade,” Sherlock said quietly. “It was mid-March. The fifteenth, perhaps, or the sixteenth. He introduced you; said that you were a new member of his team. A very bright Detective Sergeant. I wanted nothing to do with the Yard, let alone you. And you said -”

“‘We’ve got a corpse in a tree and the team can’t get near it because of an angry goose; fancy taking a look?’” Hopkins broke in, remembering. Sherlock gave a soft laugh.

“How could I refuse?”

Hopkins gave a tiny quirk of a smile and drank again. They lapsed into silence for a time. Hopkins returned his attention to the television screens, and Sherlock watched the crowd for a while. But after a time, he found that his gaze kept straying back to Hopkins. 

Fifteen years was nearly one-third of his life, and Hopkins had been there for all of that. He had arrived during the worst period of Sherlock’s life and had never quite managed to leave, no matter how horrible Sherlock had been towards him. He had weathered Sherlock’s moods and his rants; he had bantered with Sherlock and proven to be interesting in his own right. He never allowed Sherlock to get away with anything he found unsavoury – he might now be Sherlock’s closest friend, but unlike John, Hopkins made Sherlock work for his friendship. 

This was Sherlock’s constant; his friend and protégé. Hopkins was the one person in Sherlock’s life that he alone had been able to watch out for. Victor, John, Lestrade – they all had been so concerned with Sherlock’s well-being that they never took a moment to think about their own. Hopkins never compromised himself. He was only willing to give so much; Sherlock had to meet him halfway. 

“The other night,” Hopkins said suddenly, but so quietly that this time Sherlock had to lean in to hear him, “when we were in my office after the party – Sherlock, had you been about to kiss me?”

His eyes flicked from the television screen over Sherlock's right shoulder to his face, and they stared at one another for a moment.  There seemed no point in denying it, for Hopkins wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t already know the answer. Sherlock nodded wordlessly.

“Hm,” was all Hopkins said in reply. He picked up his glass again and swiveled his eyes back to the television sets. Without looking at Sherlock, he added, “Next time, you shouldn’t let the phone stop you.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and, when he could find his voice again, said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The crowd around them suddenly silenced and stilled, as though collectively holding its breath. The chatter fell from a dull roar to a distant mumble, and Sherlock looked around.

“Midnight,” Hopkins murmured as the crowd began counting down with the announcers on television. He picked up his half-empty glass and held it aloft; Sherlock mirrored his movement. He touched his glass to Hopkins’ as the crowd erupted around them. Their fingers brushed, sending an electric jolt down Sherlock’s spine. 

“Happy New Year, Stanley.”

Hopkins’ eyes glittered in the dim room, warm and welcoming and completely entrancing.

“And to you, Sherlock.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings specific to this chapter:** Mentions of memory loss in an OC; inaccurate use of holograms.
> 
> **Notes:** Sadly, I've had to give up on the hope of making this just 15 chapters. Length-wise, it looks like we're now clocking in at around the same word count as "Gods." This is because Imp has a bad habit of getting a fic through the beta & editing stage, and then once it comes time to post she does a bit of "tweaking"... which adds more to the length than she'd intended. I'm still going to be doing my best to get 1-3 chapters out every weekend, so hopefully this will be up in full relatively quickly. My apologies, and thanks for your patience!  
> 

The middle of January was as unremarkable as the beginning had been. 

This month wasn’t particularly cold, nor was it particularly warm. The snowfall had been average, and the skies were clear on as many days as they were overcast and dreary. 

Sherlock worked a variety of odd cases that month, each one lasting only a few days at the most. They weren’t especially challenging cases, but the fact that he could solve each of them so quickly was buoying in and of itself.

Hopkins’ case continued to stagnate. Even with the knowledge that there were, quite probably, two men involved in the murders as opposed to one, no progress was made. With no leads and no abductions to offer new evidence, Hopkins was forced to put it on the back burner as other, more pressing murders began to command his attention. Sherlock worked on the case in what free time he had available, but he proved to be no more successful than the Yard

Sherlock saw Hopkins infrequently, as they both became occupied with their respective work. Sherlock didn’t realise how much he had come to rely on seeing Hopkins on a regular basis until going several days without even hearing from the man became a rule rather than an exception. It made Sherlock irrationally irritable, and he began to regard the few times they could see one another as almost sacred.

Which was why, on this afternoon, Sherlock found that he was having to actually fight back anger as he waited for Hopkins in his office at the Yard. They were supposed to meet for a lunch that was already going to be brief, as Hopkins was going to be occupied with meetings for the rest of the afternoon, and Hopkins was currently nowhere to be found.

He arrived at his office ten minutes after Sherlock showed up, and Sherlock didn’t bother to hide his annoyance.

“You’re late,” Sherlock accused the moment Hopkins breezed through the door.

“Not my fault this time, honest to God,” Hopkins sighed. He dumped their lunch on his desk and shed his coat. “Your brother wouldn’t shut up.”

“My - what?” Sherlock blinked at him. “What did _he_ want with you? Is there something new in regards to the case?”

“No.” Hopkins pulled out several small containers from the bag, handing three to Sherlock and keeping the rest for himself. “This meeting was scheduled weeks ago. He wanted to discuss something else.”

“This was _planned?”_ Sherlock couldn’t mask his incredulity.

Hopkins nodded. He sat down behind his desk and propped his feet up.

“It went a bit longer than I was expecting, though; sorry again. His fault, like I said. And lunch is on him to make up for it, so I guess that’s something.”

Sherlock was still staring at him, dumbfounded.

“He set up a meeting with you,” he repeated slowly. “He – didn’t kidnap you?”

Hopkins gave him a strange look. “No. That the sort of thing he does, old man?” 

Sherlock thought it best not to get into that right now. “What did he want?”

Hopkins’ face darkened. He stabbed a piece of meat with his fork and chewed contemplatively for a few moments. “He wanted to discuss some security concerns.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Security concerns?”

Hopkins’ eyes flicked to Sherlock’s face, and then away. “You never told me you had a security detail.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. He crossed an ankle over his knee and began to pick at his own meal.

“That,” he said dismissively, “is nothing. It appeases my brother. I am far more concerned about his more invasive ways of meddling in my life--namely, his frequent usage of CCTV to spy on me. And those _damned_ vid screens he keeps tapping into.”

Hopkins gave an unexpected, gruff chuckle.

“So _that’s_ why you hate those things.”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed non-committally. “His people themselves are much less of a threat to my privacy. I find that they are quite easy to ignore, in fact. And I practice giving them the slip whenever I’m particularly bored—though occasionally that fails, I must admit.”

Hopkins snorted and shook his head.

“Now you’re just shitting me.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him.

“There are five men in the building right now who are connected to my brother, and they are here on his orders,” he said. “Two of them work on Dimmock’s team. One works in the lobby downstairs. Another is in Forensics, and the fifth,” he flashed a smile he knew would unnerve Hopkins, “works for _you_ , Stanley.”

Hopkins stared at him.

“Fuck,” he said flatly. Sherlock shrugged.

“It’s nothing you need concern yourself with. They are some of Mycroft’s best agents, and they are more than suitable for the jobs that have been assigned to them. They went through the same training as every other officer in this building. You needn’t worry that somehow your team’s performance has suffered because of the presence of Mycroft’s men. Think of them merely as officers with some... special skills. Oh, and there are two more bodyguards in the building across the way. They’ve been watching us the entire time. No, don’t bother, you won’t be able to see them.”

Hopkins turned back around to look at him. He frowned, and then returned to his food. Sherlock was puzzled.

“You’re upset.”

Hopkins shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No, not really. I’m not even all that surprised, to be honest. I just -”

He broke off.

“You just what?” Sherlock prompted.

“I just don’t know how you manage it so well,” Hopkins admitted finally. “I think I’d go mad. I probably _will_ go mad, because the thing is... Mycroft’s assigning me security, now, too. That’s what he wanted to talk about.”

_ This _ was unexpected, and Sherlock stared at him blankly for a few moments. Had he seen this coming?  _Should_ he have seen this coming? He had surmised that Mycroft wanted to discuss _his_ security with Hopkins. It wasn’t unheard of for Mycroft to kidnap those closest to Sherlock in order to feel them out. He tried to buy their loyalties and considered the ones he failed to persuade worthy of keeping in Sherlock’s life--or, as in Victor’s case, Mycroft found them so remarkable that he hired them on the spot for his own purposes.

But if anyone could catch Sherlock by surprise, it was Mycroft. Mycroft didn’t work by anyone’s schedule but his own, and if he wanted to speak with someone, they were brought to _him_.

This was most unusual.

“Did he say why?” Sherlock asked finally, aware that the silence had stretched on for longer than was socially acceptable. Hopkins shrugged.

“He said that it was about time, whatever that means.” Hopkins gave a weak smile. “Starting to think you’ve been hiding something from me. You’re not James Bond, are you?”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to snort. Hopkins quickly sobered.

“I told him this was ridiculous. I’ve known you fifteen years, what makes now so different than the beginning?” He ate in irritation for a moment.

“But he refused to listen,” Sherlock knew his brother only too well.

“I’m getting a security detail. Hopefully they remain more inconspicuous to me than to you; I don’t know what I’ll do if I figure out where they’re hiding.”

They ate in silence for a while longer, Sherlock contemplating this sudden, odd behavior on Mycroft’s part--strange even for him. It couldn’t be because there were threats now on Hopkins’ life--Sherlock would have known about that long ago. And Mycroft would have consulted him.

“Remind me,” he said finally, and Hopkins looked up, “to teach you how to give them the slip. I’ll show you all my tricks.”

It was worth it to see the slow, genuine smile that spread across Hopkins’ face.

And later that night, when he was back at Baker Street, Sherlock pulled out his mobile to tap out a short message to Mycroft.

_ I appreciate you not kidnapping him _ . 

The response, as he expected, was immediate.

_ I was only attempting to comply with your wishes, little brother. Have a good night. _

\----

Sherlock woke one morning with his left hand throbbing, and the oral analgesics he took did little to lessen the ache. He went about his business as normal, but the pain was always present in the back of his mind. Two days later, he woke with swollen fingers and stiff knuckles. 

The morning after that, he couldn’t move his hand. 

“If you’re here about the eyeballs, they aren’t ready yet,” Molly said when she discovered Sherlock in her office later that afternoon. She took one look at his face, though, and immediately grew concerned. “What’s happened?”

Wordlessly, Sherlock tugged off his left glove. Molly took in his swollen fingers and sighed. 

“Do they hurt badly?” she asked gently.

“I am finding it difficult to concentrate on much else,” Sherlock admitted. “And recently, I’ve found that I’m having difficulty moving them. Molly, I don’t know what to do.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “And you’re coming to me for advice?”

“I always do.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you actually going to listen to what I say this time?”

“Yes.” Sherlock held out his hand. “Molly, please.”

She took the hand between both of her own, cradling it, and when she tried to move one of the joints Sherlock tensed and tried not to jerk his hand away. 

“I have a friend who specializes in grievous injuries,” she said finally. “His name is Jason Branson, and he was trained during the Conflict. He’s an expert when it comes to dealing with amputations and the complications that can result from them. Sherlock – this is beyond me, now. You need to talk to him.”

“And what’s he going to tell me?”  Sherlock pressed. She was quiet for a moment. “Molly.”

She sighed.

“You’ve done all you can for that hand,” she said softly. “Painkillers will only last you for so much longer. After that – you either live with the pain, or you have the hand reconstructed and a prosthesis put into place.”

Sherlock, even though he had been expecting this, found that the words still landed like a blow. He withdrew his hand, nodding his thanks to her, and put the glove back on. 

“He wasn’t wrong to do what he did,” he said after a moment. 

Molly’s face softened.

“Of course not,” she said. “Victor did what was necessary at the time. And now you need to do the same.”

 

Jason Branson was an exceptionally busy man, but the moment Sherlock sent him an image of his left hand, he cleared his schedule one Wednesday afternoon so that he could fit Sherlock in right away. 

Sherlock underwent an entire day of grueling tests before Branson reached the same conclusion that Molly did. 

“We need to keep in mind that, while your original surgery was performed by a professional, it wasn’t done in the best of circumstances,” he told a groggy Sherlock late in the afternoon. “It was bound to develop complications at some point. To be honest, I’m impressed that you got normal use out of that hand for as long as you did.”

Sherlock had been at the hospital since shortly after dawn. He had endured scans and blood tests, and had been pumped full of various drugs so that his hand could be properly imaged. He had also needed to be put on a particularly strong set of painkillers so that the technicians could move his hand freely without causing him debilitating agony. 

“I need the prosthesis,” Sherlock said thickly, and Branson nodded.

“If you want to continue on with the quality of life you’ve been experiencing until now, yes. You need to have a prosthetic device attached to that hand, and the accompanying surgery that reconstructs part of the wound.”

“How long will the surgery take?”

“Four hours. Ideally, you’ll be kept overnight for observation after that, and then you’ll be told to stay at home for about a week to make sure that the prosthesis takes to your various tissues. The physical therapy after that will last for about three weeks.”

Sherlock sighed heavily.

“Right,” he said finally. “When can we do this?”

They scheduled the surgery for March. Until then, Sherlock would need to come in for weekly injections that would dull the pain in his hand and hopefully keep it functioning for the next two months.

“You’re in good hands, Mr Holmes,” Branson said cheerfully. “Er… bad pun not intended.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but snort, for that was exactly the sort of dry humour Hopkins enjoyed. 

“I’m sure I am,” he said wryly. He reached for his coat while Branson gave his records a final cursory glance. 

“One last thing, Mr Holmes. It seems your previous physician never noted how you lost your fingers in the first place,” he said, a frown creasing his brows. “I’ve always assumed it was a war wound, from the newspaper photographs of it that I saw. But it doesn’t say anything here about you having served in the Conflict.”

Sherlock slid his arms into his coat and adjusted the collar.

“Is this necessary information?” he asked finally. Branson shook his head.

“I’m just curious.”

Sherlock considered him for a moment.

“You weren’t incorrect. It _is_ a war wound,” he said finally. “Just not from the one that you’re thinking of. Good day, doctor.”

\----

Hopkins’ schedule began to settle down as January faded into February, though more often than not he needed to reschedule their lunches so that they were dinners instead. 

“I hope that’s actually food I smell,” Hopkins commented one evening as he stepped into the flat. Checkers, who had taken to napping in a patch of sun on the steps outside Alice’s flat, had evidently followed Hopkins up the stairs. Sherlock watched as Checkers darted across the main room to his new favourite spot by the window. 

“No experiments tonight,” Sherlock said as Hopkins stepped into the kitchen and deposited a bag on the table. He pulled out the various spices Sherlock had requested that he pick up from the shops on his way over. Sherlock nodded his thanks.

“Dry spell?” Hopkins teased lightly. 

“I have another paper due,” Sherlock said. “I can’t move forward with any experiments until that’s finished.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. He did need to have this latest article to his editor by Wednesday, but paper deadlines had never stopped him from performing experiments before. But Hopkins could stand to have a decent meal once in a while, and though Sherlock found the task tedious he knew Hopkins would sustain himself on cigarettes and meager amounts of takeaway if given the chance. The man hated cooking, and he was exceptionally terrible at it.

Therefore, tonight the kitchen was only for food. 

“How goes the case?” Sherlock asked as Hopkins moved into the other room to properly greet Checkers.

Hopkins snorted. “It goes.”

“That’s hardly promising.”

“Tell me about it. Checkers likes your present, I see,” Hopkins said, quickly changing the subject. The tank with the frog had been set up in one corner of the flat, and Sherlock had set a chair next to the tank because he’d discovered that Checkers enjoyed watching the creature. The dog – he was no longer a puppy, and really was far too big for the armchair he liked to sleep in – would brace his front paws on the chair and peer into the tank, sometimes for minutes on end. He was doing that now, completely heedless of the fact that Hopkins was scratching him behind his ears. “You should name him.”

“Hm? Oh, the frog? Henry.”

Hopkins blinked at him.

“You… actually named him?” he asked, surprised. “And it’s _Henry?_ ”

Sherlock shrugged, and Hopkins laughed.

“Henry, then,” he chuckled. “Henry, the poison dart frog. I like it.”

“ _Dendrobates leucomelas,_ actually _,_ ” Sherlock told him. “He’s a yellow-banded dart frog.”

Hopkins looked at him over his shoulder and flashed him a grin. “Also known as the bumblebee poison frog.”

“I _knew_ you’d done that on purpose,” Sherlock said triumphantly, feeling a swell of pride in his chest. He always enjoyed moments that proved Hopkins was just as clever as Sherlock hoped he would be.

“I know how you like bees, but I couldn’t just get you a beehive for your birthday,” Hopkins said. “So this was the next best thing.”

They shared a quiet dinner over some mindless television. Hopkins faded quickly after the meal was finished, and by sundown he was falling asleep on the sofa. Sherlock nudged him with his knee as he got up to put their plates in the kitchen.

“Goin’ for some air,” Hopkins said blearily. He stood and stretched before heading for the door. Sherlock ran the faucet and began to rinse the cutlery.

“I’ll join you in a moment.”

He found Hopkins up on the roof ten minutes later, which was a usual haunt of theirs during the summer, when Baker Street was too stifling or the weather outside too inviting to waste an evening inside. They rarely frequented the roof in winter, but this year the season almost temperate.

Hopkins was smoking, probably from the pack that he had started to carry around in his pocket at all times. He offered a cigarette to Sherlock, who declined.

Night had come on quickly once the sun’s slow descent finally carried it below the horizon. The stars were already out, glinting against the blackened sky.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Hopkins said absently. He drew on his cigarette. Sherlock handed him a beer he had brought along from the kitchen and then sat down beside him.

“It’s not real, Stanley.” Sherlock stretched out anyway on his back, face turned to the sky and the not-real stars, tucking his hands behind his head. 

Light pollution had become such an issue in recent years that no one could see the actual stars in London anymore. The city’s solution to the problem had been to set up a vast holographic projection that they turned on at night. It mirrored the real night sky, except it had the added benefit of being much closer and brighter, and therefore able to cut through the interference from city lights.

“It is, in a way.” Hopkins took a long swallow of beer before lying back next to Sherlock. “It’s what the sky would look like right now if all the lights went out.”

“But it’s not real,” Sherlock insisted, and Hopkins gave a short bark of laughter.

“Just because it’s not real doesn’t mean people can’t be affected by it,” he said, nudging Sherlock with his knee. He put an arm behind his head and added, “Sometimes all that matters is that we perceive it to be real.”

Sherlock fell silent at that. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a star, a true star, in the London night sky. It must have been at least ten years back.

Hopkins stubbed out his cigarette on the gravel roof and then flicked the butt away. The moon was rising off to their right, the true moon, a pale disc in the sky that had yet to be washed out by the lights. That day would come, though, and soon it would be added to the holographic illusion.

“You all right, old man?” Hopkins asked eventually. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not when you have something to rant about, and I know how much you hate this sky.” Hopkins’ voice took on a teasing lilt. “Go on. Tell me what a waste of power and money it is to keep the projection going. Tell me what they’ve got wrong this night. Is Orion out of place again?”

Sherlock gave a wan smile and nudged Hopkins with his knee in return, but could otherwise think of nothing to say. They lapsed into silence again, watching the sky. It was almost serene, and Sherlock could very nearly forget that they were in the midst of a horrific case. But Hopkins checked his phone discreetly, and at regular intervals, and Sherlock couldn’t maintain that illusion for very long.

_ Sometimes all that matters is that we perceive it to be real. _

“I’ve been having these dreams,” Sherlock said at length. He felt Hopkins turn to look at him, and kept his eyes fixed on Andromeda. “Not often… but often enough. I see Victor in them, and he’s always too far away. Not by much, just - just barely out of reach. I chase him, I try to catch him, and I always fail. And when I wake up -”

Sherlock swallowed. His voice came to his ears from very far away, as though someone else was speaking, laying bare the secret he had been keeping for two months now.

“And when I wake up,” he continued, softer, “it feels as though he was just here. And I wonder if I was wrong to stop looking all those years ago.”

In the months following Victor’s death, Sherlock had indulged the irritating, relentless voice in the back of his mind that wondered whether Victor was truly dead this time. The idea had taken him across the continent, where he had methodically searched all of the Trevor family estates before having each one destroyed. It had taken him back to Victor’s French home on three separate occasions, and to the cottage in the South Downs countless times. He had chased imaginary leads and gut feelings and misplaced intuition.

He had chased his ghosts, and he came back empty-handed.

“You weren’t wrong,” Hopkins said gently.

Sherlock nodded.

“I know. But that’s not usually the first thought on my mind when I am woken by one of those dreams.”

Hopkins shifted, and his shoulder inadvertently brushed against Sherlock’s arm. The touch bled through both their shirts, and Sherlock felt an unexpected warmth rush through his chest.

“How long?” he asked finally.

“Since Christmas,” Sherlock said softly. 

He expected Hopkins to then ask why he was being told this, and Sherlock didn’t have an answer for that. At least, not one he could voice out loud. The fact of the matter was that Hopkins was the only one Sherlock had ever considered telling about the dreams. He had always trusted Hopkins with his life; somewhere along the way, he had realised that Hopkins could be trusted with his heart as well.

And Victor was a large part of that.

“Do you want them to stop?”

Sherlock blinked, taken aback by the question.

“Yes,” he admitted finally, “and no. I’m tired of experiencing them… and yet I’m very aware that those dreams are the only place left on this Earth where I will see him again.”

Sherlock rolled to his knees and stood before offering a hand down to Hopkins, who took it. He hauled Hopkins up. 

Hopkins’ grip was warm and firm. He smelled of spice and cigarette smoke, and Sherlock went lightheaded. Had Hopkins always smelled like that? If so, he could not recall it ever being so... distracting.

“I’m sorry about the dreams.” Deep lines of concern had etched themselves into Hopkins’ face. “I wish I could help.”

Hopkins’ collar was slightly off-center, and Sherlock straightened it with a twitch of his fingers. He let his thumb rest for a moment in the hollow of Hopkins’ throat, and he felt Hopkins swallow hard.

“You already do.”

\----

Sherlock was recalled to the Holmes  family estate on a bitter morning in February following news of his stepfather’s death.

February was always a wretched month, its days alternating between dreary grey and deceptively brilliant. Throughout it all, it was cold, more so this year than January had been. It was also usually so frigid that ice crept up the windows of 221B and stayed for the entire month. Sherlock, in recent years, had taken to holing himself up in the flat virtually until March, and the fact that he was forced to leave—in order to make a socially-acceptable appearance at a funeral, no less—compounded his already-foul mood.

He arrived at his childhood home late in the afternoon, having traveled first by train and then by cab, deliberately making the journey a meandering one so that he could put off his arrival for as long as possible. Despite his efforts, however, he was still the first of the family to arrive, and that irritated him to no end. No doubt Mycroft had done that on purpose, so that Sherlock was forced to spend extra time alone in the house that he hated.

There was a pervasive chill throughout the vast house, and stepping in from the cold was merely a figure of speech at best. It felt rather as though Sherlock had merely stepped from the ice box into the fridge, and when one of the staff offered to take his coat, he refused.

“When is my brother due to arrive?” he asked, and was informed that Mycroft wasn’t expected until dinner. Sherlock resisted--just barely--giving a waspish reply, and instead stole upstairs, where he was most likely to find some peace and quiet in the meantime. The staff was occupied with preparing for his brother’s arrival, and with the guests they would be hosting after the funeral tomorrow. They did not much care what Sherlock did, so long as he didn’t get in the way.

His childhood room was the one at the end of a long corridor on the second storey, though that was the only thing about it that had remained unchanged after all these years. None of his personal possessions remained. The ones he had deemed important had made the move to London with him; the rest had been discarded. If his mother had saved any of his childhood toys, they had either been given away long ago or packed away into storage. Sherlock didn’t much care, either way.

The room had been converted into a study in the intervening years, but someone had dragged in a camp bed for his use. Sherlock spent some time perusing the bookshelves, listening to the activity that filtered up from the ground floor. Eventually, curiosity got the better of him, and he set out to explore the rest of the house.

Erik had not changed the house much since Sherlock’s mother passed away five years ago. Her presence still radiated from the furniture, the artwork that lined the walls, the general decor. Violet Holmes had possessed a strong personality, a wicked sense of humour, and a stubbornness that persisted even as memory loss set in and she forgot that the man she lived with was her husband; that the men who sometimes visited were her boys. It showed in the bold artwork she chose for the corridors; in the striking sculptures in the garden and the dining room.

Sherlock missed her terribly. And, if he was completely honest with himself, he was also starting to feel the marked absence of the man who had not been his father, but who had tried to fill the role nonetheless. Sherlock never let him.

Mycroft arrived finally just before dinner, and they dined together at a table that was far too large for just the two of them.

“Did you bring your suit?” Mycroft asked as they started in on the second bottle of wine. Sherlock took a couple of seconds to answer. He really shouldn’t have had any of the drink.

“Yes.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“I’m drunk, not a child,” Sherlock retorted. “But you’re welcome to go through my belongings if you like.”

Mycroft declined.

Sherlock went to bed with a headache and woke up wanting to remove his head from his neck. Light made the agony worse, and there was no avoiding that on this brilliant wintry morning. It took a handful of oral analgesics and two glasses of water before he could even contemplate getting ready for the day, and even then the headache never disappeared completely.

The funeral was long, dull, and lightly attended. Sherlock didn’t recognise very many of the mourners, and the ones he did know were distant relations by marriage that he hadn’t seen since they were all children. He spoke little, counting down the minutes until it was socially acceptable for him to escape up to his room. As midnight approached, Mycroft and four of their cousins were in the library downstairs, some of them smoking and all of them working their way through the house’s brandy. Sherlock, whose headache had finally intensified in to the migraine that had been threatening all day, pressed his palms to his eyes and willed sleep to come. Or for everyone else in the house to disappear. He would take either, at this point.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, shattering the room’s silence. Sherlock turned his head and stared it for some moments, uncomprehending. No one tried to call him on the device anymore, everyone preferring instead to use their vid screens. And if someone needed him specifically, they knew that their only hope of reaching him immediately was by text.

But one person had compromised, conceding to Sherlock’s distaste for invasive forms of technology but usually refusing to give up the middle ground and indulge him completely.

“Stanley,” Sherlock greeted finally as he answered the phone. His voice was a rough croak.

“Hey.” Hopkins’ voice echoed slightly, and his words were breathy. He was either standing in his kitchen, having just returned home after a run, or he had just finished a late-night round of sparring in the Yard’s gym, which would be deserted at this hour of night. Sherlock couldn’t tell which of those options was correct, and the realisation irritated him.

“Has there been a new development in the case?”

“What? Oh, no. I just heard about your stepdad. Thought I’d give you a call.”

“John?”

“No. Alice, actually. I stopped by this evening; she told me you’d gone home.”

Sherlock blinked, and then realised what had been nagging uneasily at the back of his mind all day.

“I missed our meal,” he said quietly. “Apologies. I... was distracted this morning. I didn’t think to call...”

He trailed off.

“You have nothing to apologise for.” Hopkins’ voice was filled with too much understanding. “Has it been all right? All things considered. I know how you hate that house.”

“It’s Mycroft’s now,” Sherlock said. “It’ll go to me when he’s gone. I don’t want it.”

“I know.” There came the sound of a running faucet. “Were you close?”

“Erik was a decent man.” Sherlock worried a loose thread on his sleeve. “But he wasn’t my father. I don’t think I ever forgave him for that.”

“I’m sorry.” There was a slight pause, and Sherlock feared the conversation had run its course already. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock answered automatically. 

“No, you’re not,” Hopkins said at once. His voice grew quieter. “Tell me.”

“I hate this house,” Sherlock muttered. “I hate it, Stanley. I hate - I hate that I lost my mother more than twenty years before she died. I rarely visited after my return, you know. I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand to be around her when all she would do was ask for Victor, or for my father. I was always eighteen or – or five, to her. She remembered me, but never the _right_ me. It hurt. It still hurts.”

Hopkins was quiet, listening, allowing Sherlock to say the words he had been needing voice for two days. When it was over, he sat in silence, absorbing them, giving Sherlock the benefit of a listener who wouldn’t offer him useless platitudes. And then he moved on.

“When are  you due back?” Hopkins asked.

Sherlock blew out a harsh breath between his teeth, gathering himself. “The earliest train I could get arrives in London tomorrow evening.”

“What time? I’ll come get you.”

“I -” Sherlock stopped and blinked. “I appreciate the offer, Stanley, but I can arrange a cab.”

“You could, but you won’t.” Hopkins gave a sudden bark of laughter. “Believe me, I’m not being kind. This is for my own entirely selfish reasons. You missed our lunch today; I expect you to make up for it. I’m picking you up from the station, and then you’re coming with me to dinner.”

Sherlock grinned despite himself.

“If you insist,” he said dryly, and he could hear Hopkins’ smile through the phone. “My train arrives at eight.”

“I’ll be there, old man. See you tomorrow.”


	10. Chapter 10

The platform was crowded, windy, and cold.

The train itself had been packed full to bursting, which soured Sherlock’s already bitter mood, and the sharp blast of wintry air that slammed into him as he stepped off the train car caused it to deteriorate further. His left hand, in its padded glove, was aching, and the cramped train ride had been less than kind on his knees, which popped with every step.

There was noise everywhere, which grated on his nerves, and the bustling crowd kept jostling him and trying to shunt him in the wrong direction. Finally, Sherlock broke free of the throng of travelers and sought shelter under an overhang, where he could keep a lookout for Hopkins without having to deal with all the other people on the platform.

This was a mistake. He should have just taken the cab. He’d have been able to duck into it and would be halfway to Baker Street right now. Instead, he was on this blasted platform with all of these irritating people –

“Sherlock!”

The advantage of Hopkins, Sherlock mused as he raised a hand in greeting, was that he towered over a crowd. He was a couple of inches taller than Sherlock, and he held himself in such a manner that it always seemed like much more. The hordes of travelers parted before him, and he strode through as though he didn’t even notice they were there.

“How was your trip?” he asked, flashing a rare, brilliant smile. His features had been sharpened by the cold, and his grey eyes were bright. He turned up the collar of his coat as he approached, to shelter his neck from the wind.

“Hellish,” Sherlock said, though he couldn’t help but return the smile. He adjusted the strap of his bag, repositioning it so that it wasn’t cutting into the side of his neck. “Shall we?”

Hopkins had brought his car, and they zipped through the London streets. Driving always turned the normally even-keel Hopkins into someone a good deal more animated. He chattered endlessly at Sherlock, his sentences frequently punctuated by comments thrown at the other drivers.

“So then I asked her – oi, where the hell does this guy think he’s going?  - to fax over the form, and would you believe that she had the nerve to say – that is a _nice_ car. Did you see that?”

They arrived at Hopkins’ house in ten minutes, when really it should have taken almost twenty.

“I haven’t got a lot in,” Hopkins said as they stepped through the foyer of his home. “I was going to go to the shops, but, well… there were a few crises at work and then an incident involving a rat, so there went my day. But I figured you’d probably appreciate something that wasn’t takeaway, and I should have enough to make a decent meal…”

“I’ll be honest, Hopkins,” Sherlock said, dropping his bag by the door and massaging his shoulder absently. “I couldn’t care less about food right now, but I’d commit murder for some scotch.”

Hopkins gave him another brilliant smile, and this time a shiver went down Sherlock’s spine.

“ _That_ , old man,” Hopkins said, moving into the kitchen, “is something I can easily provide. Come on.”

He poured Sherlock his scotch and then grabbed a beer from the fridge for himself.

“Make yourself at home; I need to change,” Hopkins said, wrinkling his nose as he handed Sherlock his drink. “God, I smell like the Yard.”

“It’s no wonder, given that you practically live there,” Sherlock pointed out. He moved into the main room with both their drinks and collapsed on the sofa. He didn’t so much nurse his scotch as he did finish it off in two swift swallows, and he was already fixing himself another when Hopkins emerged from his room, dressed in jeans and a black sleeveless shirt.

“Good Lord, was it that bad?” Hopkins asked in some amazement. He walked over to the counter and, tall though he was, went up on the balls of his feet in order to grasp at something on the shelves above the sink. His shirt rode up as he did so, revealing a taut stomach and a trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Sherlock knew he was staring openly and couldn’t bring himself to care. It was rare that he saw Hopkins in anything other than his work clothes, and even when he dressed casually, very rarely did he even wear a t-shirt, let alone a vest. His skin was winter-pale, his flesh having lost last summer’s tan, but muscles rippled up his forearms and his biceps were still well-defined despite the languid winter months. Hopkins’ hair was mussed and his jeans hugged the tight curve of his arse. He was a man of forty-three who appeared a good decade younger, and Sherlock felt a deep flush creep up his neck as his gaze wandered over Hopkins’ hard shoulders and broad chest. He finally forced his eyes away, knocked back a swallow of his scotch, and tried to focus on the cool glass in his hand in an effort to get his mind off the fact that his body had suddenly decided that it had desires it wanted him to attend to.

“Aha!” Hopkins announced triumphantly a moment later, having finally found the bag of crisps he’d been after. He flashed Sherlock a grin and clapped him on the shoulder before moving into the main room. “A meal fit for great men, right?”

“So long as it’s accompanied by this scotch, yes. I can’t think of anything better.”

Hopkins sat down on one end of the sofa and broke open the bag of crisps. Sherlock sat down on the other end, folding  a leg beneath him and taking a tentative sip of his scotch.

“Well, the scotch is all yours,” Hopkins said. “Can’t think of how long that’s been in the cabinet. I don’t drink the stuff; couldn’t even tell you where it came from.”

There was silence for a time while they drank. Hopkins munched away happily on the crisps, and even Sherlock deigned to have a handful. An even warmth had spread through his limbs, and for the first time in a week, the tension started to bleed from his neck and shoulders. The funeral and the visit to his family home seemed so very far away at the moment, a distant memory that belonged to someone else. He was content here in this house with Hopkins. 

“How was Mycroft?”

Sherlock leaned back against the sofa, affecting a slouch, and propped his feet on the low table in front of them. He held his drink balanced on his stomach and turned his face towards the ceiling, closing his eyes.

“Irritating,” he said at last.

“That’s mild,” Hopkins said. He brushed salty fingers against his jeans and then reached for his beer. “And the funeral?”

“No better.” Sherlock sighed. “That house is stifling, Hopkins. I hate it.”

“I know.” Hopkins’ voice was understanding, not pitying, and Sherlock felt a swell of gratitude. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve spent the past week chasing down an elusive rat, putting together team evaluations, dealing with an officer I caught stealing equipment from forensics, and trying not to drown under a ton of paperwork that was all due at once. Oh, and I almost became a foster parent to a newborn litter of puppies.”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“ _One_ dog alone makes you miserable. A litter would likely have killed you.”

“They _were_ adorable, though,” Hopkins mused, completely serious. “I’d have died happy.”

“You are unbelievably irrational sometimes, Hopkins.”

“Yeah, but that’s what makes me interesting, isn’t it?” Hopkins lifted an amused eyebrow at him and then took another swallow of his drink. His shirt shifted as he did so, just slightly, and Sherlock caught sight of a mark on his chest that he’d never noticed before – not that he’d seen Hopkins without a shirt, mind, apart from that one day in the pool. Hopkins followed his gaze and then gave a soft laugh.

“Oh, right. I didn’t tell you about that, did I?” he asked. “Got that last month.”

“What is it?”

Hopkins pushed aside his shirt briefly to offer Sherlock a partial view of his chest. A silhouette of a wolf had been inked into his skin just over his right pectoral, black set against milky-white. The animal was outstretched, captured mid-stride as it ran, and its head was thrust forth in the middle of a howl. Sherlock reached out his hand, letting his fingers come to rest over the wolf’s body.

He cleared his throat and dared to meet Hopkins’ gaze. “It’s admirable work.”

“I thought so.” Hopkins’ eyes were dark, and he swallowed visibly.

Sherlock licked dry lips and dropped his gaze to the tattoo. He pushed aside Hopkins’ shirt further so that he could see the entire wolf, the dark silhouette stark against Hopkins’ pale chest. Sherlock traced his fingers lightly over the wolf’s body and head, and then down each of its legs and over its tail.

Hopkins gave an audible swallow, and Sherlock watched as gooseflesh erupted under his touch. He stole another tentative glance at Hopkins. His face remained largely impassive, but his breathing had quickened. Sherlock could feel his own heart knocking painfully against his ribcage and heard the rush of blood pounding in his ears. The scope of his world narrowed down to breath and heartbeat and Hopkins.

They locked eyes for a solid minute. And then Hopkins gave a tiny nod, his Adam’s apple bobbing has he swallowed hard. Sherlock’s breath stilled in his chest.

Slowly, very slowly, he slid his fingers up, trailing them over Hopkins’ sharp collarbone and up the hollow of his throat, bringing them to rest just under his jaw. Hopkins’ pulse throbbed under his touch, his heart beating almost as wildly as Sherlock’s own, and even over the roar of blood in his ears Sherlock heard Hopkins’ sharp intake of breath, which finally shattered the last of his reservations.

Sherlock leaned in and kissed Hopkins.

Hopkins’ lips were dry and his mouth was warm. He responded instantly to the touch, sliding his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and parting his lips under the press of Sherlock’s tongue. He tasted of beer and mint, gold and honey, and Sherlock had no idea why he’d never done this before. How absurd to think he had gone so long without knowing that Hopkins’ mouth was so sweet, so _warm_ , and that he could have experienced this years ago.  

Sherlock pulled back after several breathless minutes, just far enough to see that now a deep flush covered Hopkins’ high cheekbones and that his normally colourless lips were red. Sherlock was certain that he appeared no more composed, and he realised that at some point Hopkins had apparently unbuttoned half his shirt, though Sherlock hadn’t noticed at the time. He was struck by a sudden need to feel skin in return, to feel warmth, and he pushed his hands under Hopkins’ shirt. Hard muscle leapt under his touch, and Hopkins groaned, his eyelids fluttering.

“If I’d known the tattoo would get that reaction,” he gasped out as one of Sherlock’s wandering hands tweaked a nipple, “I’d  - _Jesus_ – I’d have shown you weeks ago.”

In one fluid movement, Sherlock pushed Hopkins’ shirt up and pulled it over his head, leaving Hopkins bare-chested and mussed. Sherlock ducked his head and brushed his lips over the tattoo, heat coiling low in his belly as Hopkins gave a strangled whimper. He kissed his way up Hopkins’ neck and along the stubbled curve of his jaw before finally meeting Hopkins’ mouth again. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Hopkins’ waist, pulling him close, and the brush of his shirt against Hopkins’ bare chest elicited a whimper from the other man.

One of Hopkins’ legs was caught between their bodies and Sherlock had one of his own still folded underneath him. They broke apart long enough for Hopkins to free his leg, and he slid it behind Sherlock on the sofa while dropping his other foot to the floor. He leaned back and Sherlock went with him, settling between Hopkins’ parted legs and on top of the man until they were pressed together from stomachs to hips to thighs. Sherlock braced himself with one hand on the sofa by Hopkins’ shoulder and the other pressed against the side of Hopkins’ neck, and this time when he ducked his head for a kiss Hopkins arched up to meet him. 

There came the sudden, shrill cry of the phone, and they both jumped. 

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” Hopkins hissed breathlessly. He pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s and closed his eyes, drawing sharp breaths through his nose. “ _Damn it._ ”

Sherlock pulled back and Hopkins sat up. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, breathing sharply through his nose, and Sherlock could see from the way his jeans had tightened that Hopkins was aroused.

For that matter, so was he, almost painfully so, and he was grateful that it was Hopkins’ phone and not his own that was ringing. His was halfway across the room, and there was no way he was going to be getting up in the next few minutes. Hopkins finally reached for his mobile, looking utterly dejected, and answered it without looking at who was calling.

“Hopkins,” he said briskly, and then, “Oh, hi, Mum. I – no, you’re not interrupting, I was just – yeah, of course.”

He stood, adjusting his jeans with his free hand, and shuffled into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock alone with the remains of the evaporating mood.

Sherlock felt as though he had been doused in cold water; as though he had been cruelly yanked from a brilliant dream and deposited in harsh reality. What had he been thinking, kissing Hopkins like that? God, he’d been _seconds_ away from suggesting they find a bed, because he was too damn old for the sofa and it was too small anyway for what he wanted to do to Hopkins.

At _that_ thought, his cock gave a valiant twitch, and Sherlock suppressed a frustrated groan. He rubbed his temples. The room was overbright and his head felt too heavy for his neck. He rested it in his hands, covering his eyes in order to block out the light.  Hopkins’ muffled voice buzzed in the back of his mind, more background noise than anything else, and he didn’t realise the conversation had ended until cool fingers touched the back of his neck.

“You all right?” Hopkins murmured.

Sherlock nodded. Hopkins slumped next to him on the sofa, propping his legs up on the table and passing a hand over his eyes. He had retrieved his shirt and put it back on; Sherlock pushed down the knee-jerk feeling of disappointment.

“Parents,” Hopkins said finally, breaking the uneasy silence, “have the worst timing.”

Sherlock swallowed past a dry throat.

“I wager,” he said finally, “it’s to make up for all the times you must have interrupted _them_ when you were a child.”

Sherlock didn’t know where his voice had come from, or where he had got those words, but they made Hopkins laugh and that eased something in his chest. 

“What happened to not letting the phone interrupt us the next time?” Sherlock added as the mood lightened and the momentary awkwardness evaporated. Hopkins snorted.

“To be perfectly honest,” he said, “I wasn’t entirely sure there _was_ going to be a next time.”

Sherlock leaned over and brushed his lips against Hopkins’. The kiss was dry and chaste, barely more than a touch of lips, but it was the most wondrous thing he’d felt in ages. When he pulled back, Hopkins was looking at him as though he couldn’t quite believe this was real, and Sherlock stroked a thumb along his bruised lips.

“Don’t be a fool,” he whispered. “It doesn’t suit you.”

He got to his feet; Hopkins followed, raking a hand through his hair.

“Will you be all right?” he asked. Sherlock nodded.

“I’ll get a cab,” he said, sliding into his coat and shouldering his bag. 

“I’ve an extra room if you don’t want to bother,” Hopkins offered. “It’s late.”

Sherlock leaned in. Hopkins met him halfway, his hands going automatically to Sherlock’s waist. This kiss was unrefined and far too wet, and it was all Sherlock could do to keep his hands from drifting below Hopkins’ hips. Oh, he had quite forgotten all of this. What it felt like to have someone warm and solid beneath his hands, someone who wasn’t a stranger but rather a person Sherlock respected; a man whose mind was as beautiful as the rest of him. He never thought he could desire anyone the way he had Victor –

Sherlock pulled away abruptly, his brain kicking into gear and reminding him of where he was and who he had been mere minutes away from shagging. Guilt-laden desire was a new emotion for him, an odd mix of pleasant and bitter, and it left a strange taste in his mouth. Hopkins must have sensed the change, for uncertainty flickered in his grey eyes as he stared back at Sherlock.

“Another time, perhaps,” Sherlock whispered finally, pushing most of the guilt aside. He grazed his lips over Hopkins’, and then, feeling bold, added, “And I won’t be needing that spare room.”


	11. Chapter 11

They became experts at not talking about the kiss.

Sherlock had woken the morning after with an uneasy knot in his stomach and a bitter taste on his tongue that wasn’t entirely due to the alcohol he had consumed the night before. The vague feeling of unease was unpleasant, and after a full day’s contemplation, the only way Sherlock could see to alleviate it was to make sure that there was no repeat of that night in the future, no matter how much he wanted – 

No, it simply couldn’t happen again. Hopkins was brilliant, and he was fantastic, and he wasn’t Victor.

Three days passed before Sherlock saw Hopkins again, and they shared an unusually-quiet lunch in Hopkins’ office. The kiss wasn’t mentioned, though Sherlock felt it hanging over both of their heads. But Sherlock couldn’t bring it up and Hopkins, he knew, wouldn’t. 

It soon became a sort of unspoken agreement that they wouldn’t mention that night. Hopkins once got so far as saying, “Sherlock, do you think we could talk –” before breaking off and shaking his head. Sherlock didn't press him for more, because he knew full well what Hopkins wanted to discuss, and Hopkins didn't bring it up again. Things were strange between them for a while after that, and the time they spent together was often punctuated by unfamiliar silences. Sherlock began to fear that the kiss—and the way that night might have ended—would hang over them always. He couldn’t bear the thought of it tarnishing their fifteen-year association, and couldn’t think of how to remedy things.

But despite all of that, Hopkins didn’t show any signs of truly withdrawing from him, and Sherlock eventually allowed himself to relax. Perhaps they would weather this storm after all, and come out of it relatively intact. It would just take time.

Hopkins was soon occupied with the case again, anyway, and any lingering questions he might have about that night were set aside as he threw himself into the work. As late February approached, there was still no sign of the serial killer and no new abductions that could be linked to him. Sherlock surmised that the killer only made his abductions and his kills in the warmer weather, hence many of his victims being found in springtime or autumn. If the outdoors was his hunting grounds, it made sense—London was more likely to be frequented by foot traffic in three seasons out of the four.

But what role the second man played, if he played any at all, remained a mystery. And as the killer’s silence stretched on, Hopkins became more and more agitated. He usually wasn’t prone to visibly losing his temper. His fury manifested itself in his voice--the softer he became, the angrier he was. But now he was exhibiting visible bursts of anger at frequent intervals. Sherlock witnessed him snapping at his team on no less than three separate occasions inside of a week, and he once became so furious during one of their lunches in his office that he slammed his hand down on his desk, sending a stack of paperwork to the floor and nearly upsetting his meal.

Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it. Usually Hopkins was the one trying to calm him down, not the other way around, and he wasn’t sure how to help.

Until one afternoon, when Sherlock suggested that they spend their lunch hour in the Yard’s gym.

It had been at least two months since they last had a chance to go a round in the boxing ring together, and Hopkins was plainly itching for a fight. Sherlock intended to give one to him. 

“Don’t know why you want to waste time on this right now,” Hopkins grumbled, but he followed Sherlock into the changing rooms anyway. They changed in silence, wrapped their hands, and headed out to the ring.

There was always a pattern to their fights. There was the warm-up period where, hands wrapped and eyes sharp, they would slowly begin to feel one another out. They would trade light jabs and blows, limbs loosening as they fell into the well-remembered routine. And then something would crackle in the air, and the time for warming up was over. There never was any signal, verbal or otherwise, that started their fights. They would simply slip smoothly into the routine, trading long blows and circling one another, each trying to wear the other down. It wasn’t about brute force, but rather about strategy. It was a coordinated dance that kept their minds sharp and their bodies nimble.

But, on this day, their fight was none of those things. It was quick and dirty, little more than a street brawl with a few fancy dressings. Sherlock delivered quick jabs and then danced out of the way, his movements designed to agitate and provoke. He wanted Hopkins to snap, and he wanted it done here in the ring where it could be controlled.

Hopkins delivered his blows with vigor, his movements disciplined but with the occasional flair. It was clear that he wasn’t holding back, and every blow he landed on Sherlock had the full force of his strength behind it. Sherlock soon felt bruises forming on his arms, and one particularly violent punch glanced off his chin. They always avoided the face, but right now there were no rules. And Hopkins was delivering as good as he got.

Finally, Hopkins feinted right and swung left, a move that Sherlock should have seen coming. He was caught by surprise, however, and reeled back as Hopkins’ fist cracked across his nose.

“Oh, bloody hell.” Hopkins, seeming to come back to himself, took several unsteady steps backwards and leaned against the ropes, trying to catch his breath. “You all right, mate?”

Sherlock brought the back of his hand to his nose and tipped his head back, feeling blood run down the back of his throat. He swallowed, and then grimaced at the taste.

“I’ll live,” he muttered, and climbed out of the ring in order to grab a towel. Hopkins followed and took a seat next to him on the bench.

“I’m sorry,” Hopkins said between breaths. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Only a few inches separated them. Sherlock could feel the heat radiating off Hopkins’ body; smell the sweaty musk of him. He swallowed.

“Don’t,” he said. “I wasn’t fast enough. The fault lies with me. It was a good throw.”

“I don’t usually forget myself like that.”

Sherlock snorted, and immediately regretted it as his nose throbbed and continued to bleed.

“I’m not usually so slow,” he pointed out. “I’m getting old, Hopkins.”

“Hardly.” Hopkins rolled his shoulders and was quiet for a moment. “Your hand all right? Looked like you were favouring it.” 

The weekly injections at the hospital had been helping, Sherlock had to admit, but they weren’t perfect. And they were beginning to become less effective, he was noticing. Whereas the injections used to give him a relatively pain-free week, now it was only three or four days before the constant agony returned, and he would have to bear it for the three days before his next injection.

“Fine,” he lied. “Just acting up a bit.”

Hopkins grabbed a towel and wiped off his face and the back of his neck. His breathing had largely returned to normal, and his body was no longer thrumming with pent-up, frustrated energy.

“You should probably have that looked at, you know,” he said. 

Sherlock hadn’t yet told Hopkins about the impending surgery, mostly because he couldn’t stand the pity that would result. Partly, though, he was irrationally hoping to find a solution in the coming weeks that would allow him to avoid the procedure altogether. He knew that wouldn’t happen, but hoped that it might.

“Probably,” Sherlock said finally. “But to be honest, I’m more concerned for my nose than my hand. Who taught you to box like that?”

Hopkins gave a huff of laughter. Sherlock pulled the towel away from his face and winced at the sight of the blood left behind. His face throbbed. He _was_ getting too old.

“Are you feeling better?” he ventured finally. Hopkins shrugged.

“A bit,” he said cautiously, and then he nodded. “Yeah, actually. Thank you. I didn’t realise I’d needed that.”

Sherlock waved his words away.

“You are welcome to throw a punch at me the next time a case gets to you,” he said, mostly without thinking. And, before Hopkins could reply, added, “But keep in mind that next time, I _will_ hit back.”

Hopkins let out a huff of laughter.

“Fair enough, mate.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. His touch burned through the shirt and scorched Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock suppressed a shudder. “I should be getting back.”

Sherlock nodded, swallowing past a dry throat. He tried to avert his eyes as Hopkins walked back over to the changing area, but his gaze still passed over Hopkins’ muscled calves and the snug t-shirt that hugged his lean torso. It wasn't long ago that that body had been spread out underneath him on a worn sofa, and for a too-brief moment, Sherlock had had his hands on the taut stomach muscles and the flat planes of Hopkins’ chest. He had kissed his closest friend, and the kiss had been returned. 

He wanted it to happen again, and hated himself for it.

\----

It had been so long since Sherlock had visited Victor’s grave that flowers were blooming unchecked around the headstone.

Spring had arrived promptly this year, right at the beginning of March, though Sherlock hadn’t properly noted the season change until just the other day. The realisation happened when he came outside to find Checkers sleeping on the small patch of land between Baker Street and the pavement—a thin strip of grass that got sun for a brief time each afternoon. It was a change from his usual napping place on the staircase inside, and Sherlock realised only then that the temperature was pleasant, and that the snow that had coloured the scenery the last time he took note of the weather had disappeared. 

“ _Helleborus niger_ ,” Sherlock narrated quietly to the headstone as he sank to his knees before Victor’s grave. He fingered the delicate flowers with a gloved hand. “The Christmas rose. A short-lived but poisonous flower. How appropriate.”

Victor would have found it fitting, at least. 

“The case continues still,” Sherlock told him. “It’s been seven months since I was brought on, and still we’ve made very little progress. He’s claimed another victim since the beginning, and we found several victims dating back to Lestrade’s time… oh. I told you that already, didn’t I?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Sorry, old friend,” he said softly. “I suppose I’ve been distracted lately. It’s just – things with Hopkins…”

He trailed off, stopping short of admitting what had transpired between them three weeks back. But if Victor were here, one glance at Sherlock would have told him everything. Victor, who could read him like a book, wouldn’t have needed Sherlock to say the words.

Then again, if Victor were here, that February night would never have happened in the first place. 

Sherlock had always looked to Victor for advice; had looked to Victor for guidance. But how could he expect the most important person in his life to guide him in this area? How could he expect Victor to condone wanting another; someone who wasn’t him?

It was cruel.

“If you were here,” Sherlock said finally, “you would be able to tell instantly what happened between us. And you mustn’t blame him for it. I was the one who initiated it. I… wanted to. And I’m sorry.” 

He cleared his throat and was quiet for a while. Most days he had no trouble hearing Victor’s words in his head. He had difficulty remembering Victor’s voice anymore, but his words—his advice, his phrases, his inflections—were something Sherlock could conjure up whenever he needed to hear them.

Except for right now, when he could hear nothing – no advice, no guidance.

No forgiveness. 

Sherlock cleared his throat again and tried to move on to other topics. 

“My stepfather died,” he said at last, trying to remember all that had occurred since he was last at the gravesite.  “I imagine, if you were here, you would be more saddened than I. You always got on well with him.”

Sherlock scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“It’s strange,” he said finally. “I was never close to Erik. My mother has been dead for five years; my father, for most of my life. And yet, it’s only now that I’ve come to realise… I am an orphan. It happens to all of us, eventually, but I wasn’t expecting… it’s strange.”

Sherlock blew out a frustrated breath between his teeth.

“If you were here,” he said, “I wouldn’t have to explain. You would just _know._ You always knew, without me saying the words. I’m not good with them, but then I never needed to be. I always had you.”

And on that night, when Sherlock was alone in the house he hated and slowly starting to process the hollow feeling of absence that his stepfather’s death had left behind, he had had Hopkins.

Hopkins had known to call, and he had known what to say. He didn’t need Sherlock to form the words. 

Sherlock rocked back on his heels and rose to his feet, and the illusion of talking to Victor was broken. There were birds rustling the brittle branches of a nearby tree, and a light breeze rippled the grass. He breathed in the scent of damp earth and felt cool air on the back of his neck, and he tried to ground himself once again with the sounds of rebirth that were all around him. 

Victor was gone. Hopkins was not.

And yet, he couldn’t care for one man without betraying the other. 

\----

Though the case of their serial killer had taken a back seat in recent months to other murders, every time they closed a case Hopkins had his team go back and take a fresh look at the serial murders. They were now approaching five months since the November murder of Sarah Burlough, and even Sherlock began to wonder if the killer—and his supposed accomplice—had moved on to better, less suspecting prospects. 

Nevertheless, Hopkins’ team would pore over the same evidence time and time again, often for hours on end, and weren’t able to glean any new information from the old clues, even with Sherlock sitting in on the meetings.  These meetings with his team were usually fraught with tension, and nearly all of it came from Hopkins. Sparring sessions with Sherlock eventually weren’t enough to distract him. Hopkins needed answers, and he needed them now--for all their sakes.

At the beginning of March, Hopkins decided to switch tactics entirely. If they couldn’t figure out who their killer was, or where he was abducting his victims from, they were going to have to figure out _where_ he took his victims.

It was the only option they had left.

“Where does he take them?” Hopkins bellowed on this afternoon, snapping Sherlock suddenly from his thoughts. “Come on, people! I want theories, and I want them now!”

Hopkins’ nerves were frayed, his team was harried, and today even Sherlock’s presence wasn’t enough of a buffer.

“It must be someplace remote or abandoned,” Donovan said at last, and everyone turned to look at her. “Yet it can’t be far, because the killer abducts, murders, and dumps his victims all within forty-eight hours.”

“What do you mean by _remote?”_ Sergeant Smith asked.

“She means isolated,” Sherlock said irritably. Wasn’t it obvious? “She means that there are no neighbors within earshot, and that’s very difficult to come by in London.”

Donovan nodded. Sherlock pointed at the photographs of the victims.

“These people were _tortured_ , Smith. Look at those injuries! It would have hurt. And yet, there’s no sign of them having worn a gag, and they didn’t have enough Rohypnol in their systems to have lasted for very long. They were very awake and very aware when this happened. The killer either _wanted_ them to scream or didn’t care that they did. Either way, he can’t be taking them anyplace where there are people within earshot. And yet it also can’t be that far from London, if it’s outside the city at all, because the victims were all discovered within a few hours of their deaths. So what does that leave us?”

He never got an answer, because at that moment both Hopkins’ and Donovan’s mobiles went off at once. Donovan excused herself to take the call while Hopkins read the text on his screen.

“There was a body found on the grounds of Greentree Banking Group this morning,” Hopkins informed the rest of his team wearily. “Unrelated to this case. Smith, Anderson – you’ll go with Donovan to check it out. If it looks like you’re going to need some backup, give me a call. We’ll have to put our serial killer—or killers—aside until this new case is closed. Keep me apprised, people.”

He dismissed his team with a nod and was the last one to leave the room.

“What, Sherlock?” Hopkins said irritably as Sherlock followed him back to his office. “You’re finished here for today. Go home.”

“No.”

Hopkins turned to face him once they reached his office. He crossed his arms over his chest while Sherlock closed the door. “And why the hell not?”

“Because you are about to do something very stupid,” Sherlock said calmly.

“Me?” Hopkins snorted. “I don’t think so.”

“Then explain to me why you sent Donovan to investigate a body with only Smith and Anderson. You never voluntarily stay behind in your office, _especially_ given the fact that the sooner this new case gets closed, the sooner you’ll be able to return to your serial killer,” Sherlock pointed out. “Don’t you dare lie to me. It’s not going to work. What’s going on?”

Hopkins’ face darkened all at once.

“If you’re here to stop me, let’s get it out of the way,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “I haven’t time for this, and I’d rather not hurt you.”

“Give me some credit, Hopkins,” Sherlock said. “I may be old, but I’m not dead. Whatever you’re doing, did you really expect me to miss out on it?”

Hopkins cracked a smile, the first one Sherlock had seen on his face in days.

“I suppose that was a bit short-sighted of me.” He touched a hand to his chest, which Sherlock knew to mean that he had grabbed the gun he kept at home and was carrying it on him. He added, unnecessarily, “This isn’t going to exactly be orthodox.”

“Do you really think that matters to me?” Sherlock considered him for a moment. Hopkins had been too agitated during the meeting, and he had checked his watch three times more than was normal. Sherlock had assumed it was because Hopkins was frustrated at the dead ends that they kept running into, but maybe there was another factor at play. Perhaps Hopkins hadn’t actually been agitated, but in a hurry. And then realisation sank in. “You’ve figured out where the victims were being held.” 

“I’m not entirely sure; that’s what I was going to look into tonight.” Hopkins opened his desk drawer and pulled out a penknife, which he slipped into his pocket. “But I have an idea. Do you know of McCormack Industries?”

Sherlock had to think for a moment before he found the factory on his mental map of London.

“That’s near Hyde Park,” Sherlock said, finally locating the vast complex. Hopkins nodded.

“Right. Less than five years old, state-of-the-art equipment, a heightened security system - it’s precisely the opposite of the kind of building we’re looking for. And that, I think, is the point. Our killer isn’t concerned with being found out, right? I mean, that’s not his end goal. He doesn’t _want_ to have his moment in the spotlight, and he doesn’t want to end his killing spree. But he knows how we think. He knows that we’re going to be looking in every decrepit, out-of-the-way building we can find, because we figure he needs an isolated place to commit his crimes.” Hopkins grabbed his keys and walked out of his office; Sherlock followed.

“I didn’t think of the connection to McCormack Industries until today. But do you remember the last victim—Sarah Burlough?” Hopkins went on. Sherlock nodded. “She was found with more than DNA on her body. There were tiny grains of trioxipate on the bottoms of her feet, and some of it was also found on her hands and under her fingernails. It wasn’t considered important, not when there was DNA to analyze. But for some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was the one detail that kept sticking in my mind. Do you know what the factory makes – what McCormack Industries is known for?”

Sherlock thought for a second, and then shook his head. “If I did, I deleted it.”

Hopkins grunted.

“Hull repair bots, the kind that are employed on low-Earth orbit craft. And one of the most important components in low-Earth orbit craft and robots is the compound trioxipate. I used to work with it all the time at university. Now, there would be no reason for Sarah Burlough to have it on her body—unless she had recently been inside a factory that produced such machines.”

“And she wasn’t an employee of the factory,” Sherlock said.

“Exactly. And, not only that, but there’s only _one_ factory in all of London that makes those machines.” They entered the car park, and Hopkins dug his keys out of his pocket. “It’s a loud business, Sherlock, and the factory is in a fairly well-populated area. Think about it. They’re able to get away with that because -”

“ - because the buildings are all soundproof,” Sherlock realised. “And the victims were taken somewhere where no one could hear them scream. Oh, that’s clever. But how would the killer gain access to the factory? For that matter, how would he know about the sound-proofing in the first place?”

Hopkins glanced at him as they got into his car and he started the engine.

“Anderson is under the impression that this killer has an accomplice due to that anomalous strand of DNA,” Hopkins said as he peeled out of the car park. “If he does, then it’s possible that this accomplice is an employee of the factory. Hell, maybe the killer is as well. It seems to be the most logical conclusion. It would afford our killer easy access to a sound-proofed facility, and he would know the ins and outs of the building. We’re operating under the assumption that the killer and his accomplice are males, so that eliminates a handful of workers already. The killer has to be old enough to have been conducting murders for twenty years, which gets rid of another handful. In fact, that leaves us with a list of twenty men at this particular factory who could be suspects in this case.”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“You didn’t mention any of this at the meeting.”

Hopkins snorted.

“If I had, do you think I’d be out doing this right now?”

Sherlock shook his head. Hopkins’ team would have stopped him on the spot. While normally Sherlock had no issues with operating outside the protocols of the Yard, he couldn’t say he found it appealing when Hopkins was the one bending the rules—at risk to his own person, no less.

“You didn’t want your team to know about this. You’re going after him on your own, and you don’t want them to know, because – because you alone want to be the one to take down this killer.”

Hopkins glanced at him, and then back at the road.

“I’ve known you fifteen years, Sherlock. If you’re just now about to have an ethical crisis, I’d appreciate you telling me so I can kick you out of the car.”

Sherlock shook his head. It wasn’t Hopkins’ methods he had issue with. He had little use for justice or proper police procedures, and he rarely followed a case after he managed to solve it. What happened to the perpetrator wasn’t interesting; the puzzle itself was. But Hopkins going off on his own, and obviously intending to eliminate a killer rather than leaving him to the mercy of the justice system – well, this was new. And perhaps something that Sherlock could be concerned about.

He would deal with analyzing Hopkins’ mental state later, however.

“How do you plan to gain access to the factory?” he asked.

“The owner’s a friend of mine,” Hopkins said. “I worked in the Robotics Research Centre at King’s before joining the force; we met ther e. Kept in touch even after I decided to switch careers. He’s going to let us go on a tour of the place.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Not exactly a thorough plan.”

Hopkins shrugged. “I figured this was the best way to go about it. We’ll be having a look around, nothing more. If we find nothing, we have an excuse for being there in the first place. And we won’t raise the killer’s suspicions like a normal police search would--if he’s even around tonight. He’ll run the moment he thinks we’re onto him, you _know_ that. We need to operate under the radar, here.”

Sherlock tapped a finger on his knee, feeling the first surges of adrenaline thrum through his limbs and kick his brain into high gear. Hopkins’ theory was intriguing, and while it was a stretch, it wasn’t necessarily completely off-the-mark. Especially given the fact that Sarah Burlough had been found with such an unusual compound on her body. He wondered then if it had been found on the other victims, too, but hadn’t been put into the case notes. Or maybe the amounts of trioxipate on the other victims had been so miniscule that they hadn’t been detectable. 

Just like the DNA found on Sarah Burlough, which had barely been enough to work with.

“Do you think we should be concerned about the fact –” Sherlock started.

“Should I be concerned about the fact that the first four victims of this particular killing spree were found with no evidence on their bodies?” Hopkins finished. “And then comes along victim number five, and not only do we find DNA on her, but also a rare compound that’s only found in _one_ part of London?”

“Are we walking into a trap?” Sherlock finished. Hopkins took his eyes off the road for just a second; long enough to flash Sherlock a grin.

“I don’t know. Let’s find out, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCormack Industries, Greentree Banking Group, the hull repair robots, and the compound trioxipate don't exist and belong to me.


	12. Chapter 12

Hopkins’ friend was a portly fellow by the name of Ron, and the two men exchanged some pleasantries in Ron’s office while Sherlock was left to his own devices in the corridor outside.

McCormack Industries was actually a sprawling complex made up of multiple buildings. Sherlock and Hopkins were in McCormack Suite, which was comprised entirely of offices. This was where the consumer side of the business was conducted. The actual manufacturing was done in the three massive, grey buildings behind McCormack Suite.

Pleasantries dispensed with, Hopkins emerged from Ron’s office with visitor badges for the both of them. He handed one to Sherlock.

“He’s given us free rein of the place,” he said as they set off down the corridor. “It sounds like there are a couple of people still here on the campus working late. We’re allowed on our own until they leave. So let’s make this quick, yeah?”

They made a perfunctory search of the rest of McCormack Suite, but the offices there would have offered the killer little privacy. Manufacturing Building One was their next stop. It was a vast, open factory floor with no rooms that would have offered the killer a secure place to conduct his murders, so that one was out of the question. Building Two, just next door, was comprised mostly of laboratories, but they were also very open and would have offered someone very little privacy. 

Building Three, however, proved to be a little bit more promising.

There were more offices in the basement of this building, and they lined both sides of a labyrinth of corridors. From the labels on the outside of each one, it appeared as though this was where all the shift managers were housed. The offices appeared to be dank, cramped rooms with no windows and no contact with the outside world once the door was shut. Like the other two buildings, this one was entirely soundproofed, and it offered anyone who used these offices a good amount of privacy.

Each office was abandoned at this hour of the night, and every door was closed but unlocked. Hopkins and Sherlock went up and down the corridors, systematically opening the offices and glancing inside. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what they were looking for, and couldn’t be certain what ruled the offices out as potential kill sites. He supposed he would know it when they came upon it.

Hopkins’ theory overall was a sound one, especially given the evidence that had been found on Sarah Burlough’s body. But it was also a stretch, and as the minutes passed, Sherlock couldn’t help but start to feel that this trip had been in vain. 

“Hopkins…”

“Don’t say it,” Hopkins said sharply. “We’re not done here yet.”

Sherlock shrugged and moved on to the next office on his side of the corridor. He readied his torch and pressed his shoulder against the door, preparing to have a quick glance inside the darkened office, see nothing, and move on. 

But the door didn’t budge, and the door handle wouldn’t turn under his hand. It was locked.

“Interesting,” he muttered under his breath. 

“What is it?” Hopkins was at his side in an instant. Sherlock handed over his torch and pulled out his lock picking tools.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But something different. This is the first locked office we’ve come across tonight.”

He made quick work of the lock and opened the door. 

“Whoever uses this office obviously doesn’t want anyone getting in here after hours,” Hopkins noted. He gave Sherlock back his torch.

“There’s nothing terribly unusual about that, Hopkins. _You_ lock your office door,” Sherlock said. He stepped into the office, Hopkins on his heels.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

They lapsed into silence, running the beams from their torches over the office walls and furniture. The room was plain and sterile, with only a nameplate on the desk to personalize it.

“Anthony Dawlins,” Hopkins read. His voice was hushed. “D’you think it’s him?”

“My skills are astounding, Hopkins, but even they cannot divine a serial killer from his name,” Sherlock said dryly. He cast his torch over the technical manuals that lined the bookshelves. Hopkins shut the door behind him, and the room was thrown into total darkness, apart from the twin beams from their lights.

“This is a dead end,” Sherlock said after a moment, casting the beam of his torch over the bare walls and spotless desk. The office was as immaculate and plain as Hopkins’ own, and he could deduce very little of it. “Hopkins, there’s nothing here.”

“Yes, there is,” Hopkins said. He swept his light over the desk and twelve volumes of _Theory of Applied Robotics_ that took up one shelf on the bookcase. Sherlock sighed in frustration. They were wasting _time_. “There _has_ to be.”

“Your hunch was _wrong_ , Hopkins,” Sherlock hissed.  “This is a dead end. It was a long shot to begin with, you _knew_ that. And now we need to leave.”

“No,” Hopkins said simply, and Sherlock was about to grab his elbow and haul him away when he reached out a finger and tapped it against the wall next to the bookcase. The deep sound that reverberated back to them was unmistakable, and Hopkins rapped twice more with his knuckles before glancing at Sherlock.

It was hollow.

“Give me a hand,” he said brusquely, pocketing his torch and bracing his hands on the bookcase. Sherlock grabbed the other side, and they pushed it out from against the wall, just enough so that one of them could squeeze behind it.

The wall behind the bookcase was a shade lighter than the rest of the room, ivory instead of eggshell. There was an obvious indentation in the wall, the height and width of a door, and a small handle was set into the wall at hip height.

“Not very well disguised, is it,” Hopkins mused.

“He obviously wasn’t concerned about someone finding it,” Sherlock said as he dug through his pockets for his lock-picking tools again. “Give me a light, would you?”

Hopkins dutifully shone his torch on the keyhole, and Sherlock made quick work of the lock. He then turned the handle, ignoring Hopkins’ protests—there was no way he was going to allow Hopkins to go into the unknown room first—and pushed open the door.

It quickly became apparent why this door, though hidden, was not disguised particularly well. The room Sherlock stepped into was almost completely bare, and to an untrained eye it appeared as though it was simply a storage space. There was an old, stained mattress in one corner of the room, and Sherlock quickly averted the beam of his torch so that he wouldn’t have to look at it for very long.

The beam of light fell on the opposite side of the room instead, and he could see that there were several cans of the specialized grey paint stacked there. Three appeared to not have been opened yet, while one was obviously in use. A dried paintbrush laid on top of that particular can, and dried tracks of paint covered its side.

Hopkins pushed past Sherlock, casting his beam of light over the bare walls and dusty floor. It, too, landed on the mattress before quickly flicking away to the paint, which Hopkins stared at for a good long while. The smell of paint in the windowless room was almost overwhelming. A dull ache started to form behind Sherlock’s eyes.

“Hopkins, we should – ” he started.

But then there came the sound of a door closing, and Sherlock whipped around. His torch caught the side of Hopkins’ face. It appeared abnormally-pale, and he was staring at the back of the door. Sherlock approached him and peered at the smooth wood.

“I rather think,” Hopkins said after a stunned moment, “this is exactly what we’ve been looking for.”

There were gouges scratched erratically into the door, not deep enough to be noticeable at any distance, but they were certainly apparent if one was looking at them. Sherlock remembered the victims’ hands—he recalled the scratched fingertips; the torn nails.

“He locked them in here,” Hopkins went on, quietly. “He locked them in here, and they couldn’t get out.”

He moved the beam of his torch to the door handle, which Sherlock noticed only now was painted grey – _Silver Sea Glass,_ the shade of the specialized paint. The door handle on the other side had been brass.

Sherlock cast his beam of light over the cans of paint in the corner of the room, and then flicked it back to the door handle. In an instant, it all made sense. The killer didn’t paint his victim’s hands after they were killed, as they had been assuming.

The truth was something a good deal more disturbing.

“They all got paint on their hands accidentally,” Sherlock said quietly. Hopkins nodded, his eyes wide and his face still pale.

“And it happens before the killing,” he said in a low, horrified voice. “God, Sherlock – he was marking them.”

“He locks them in this room,” Sherlock said, “and paints the door handle. He leaves them in here to wait. There are no clocks, no windows… no way for them to tell how much time has passed. It’s maddening. They panic. And when they try to get out, the paint gets on their hands. It must be like a brand to him. He must get a thrill from seeing it; from knowing that they have been marked… marked as his own.”

“It also explains why the paint doesn’t always appear on the same hand,” Hopkins said quietly. “Some of the victims have been right-handed, and others have been left-handed. You tend to grip a door handle with the dominant hand first.”

There was a bitter taste in the back of Sherlock’s mouth, and he swallowed hard. Hopkins was the one who broke out of his horror first.

“Come on,” he said, shaking his head slightly, as though he could physically rid himself of all they had just seen. He reached for the door handle. “Let’s get out of here. I need to call this in.”

“What are you going to say?” Sherlock asked as Hopkins opened the door and they stepped out of the room. He turned around to close it and do up the lock again. “‘Chief, I was on a tour of a factory and just happened to stumble across the very room we’ve been searching for all this’ –”

There was a sudden _pop_ , and Hopkins fell to the floor with a hiss. Sherlock dropped instinctively to the ground, for he knew the sound of a gun when he heard one, and he looked up to see a man standing in the shadowed doorway. He was tall and lean, and that was all Sherlock could make out in the darkness. It was all he had time to see, too, for the gun then swiveled in his direction.

Sherlock rolled, and a bullet embedded itself in the floor where his head had been just moments before. He reached for Hopkins, snaring the gun he had carried with him and whipping it out of its holster. He wasn’t fast enough, though, and the man in the doorway fired again. Hopkins gave a muffled grunt of pain and recoiled from the impact. Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him backwards, knowing that the movement would hurt him further. But he needed to get Hopkins out of the way, and he angled his body so that if the shooter fired again, he would hit Sherlock first.

But the shooter didn’t get that chance. It had been years since Sherlock last fired a gun, but it was instinct by now; second-nature, thanks to all the lessons Victor had drilled in his head decades ago. 

The man shooting at them had taken three shots, each of them sloppy even if two of them did manage to hit Hopkins. Sherlock fired once, and only once, and it was enough. He aimed for between the man’s eyes, and his shot was true. He didn’t even hear the gun go off, but he felt the recoil in his hand and saw the man drop, unmoving, to the ground. 

Sherlock tossed aside the weapon and turned back to Hopkins, who had worked himself into a sitting position. 

“Are you all right?  _Are you all right?”_ Sherlock demanded, his hands hurriedly pushing aside Hopkins’ clothing so that he could get at the wounds.  “ _Damn it_ , man, answer me!”

“I’m fine,” Hopkins managed finally. His voice was breathy and weak, but steady. “I’m f - _Sherlock.”_

He grabbed both of Sherlock’s wrists, stilling his frantic movements. One of his hands was soaked with blood, and Sherlock wrenched himself out of Hopkins’ grip so that he could check the wounds.

“Where did he hit you?” he asked briskly. 

“Arm. Side,” Hopkins grunted. Sherlock found the larger of the two wounds first, the one on Hopkins’ torso. The bullet had only grazed Hopkins, but the gash it left behind was long and bleeding profusely. He tugged his scarf from around his neck and wrapped it around Hopkins’ torso, binding his chest tightly and hopefully applying enough pressure to put a stop to the bleeding.

“These are superficial,” Sherlock said, more for his own benefit than Hopkins’. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I know,” Hopkins said. Sherlock pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it against Hopkins’ arm, where the first bullet had ripped through his jacket and the shirt underneath to leave a welt and a small gash behind. It wasn’t bleeding nearly as badly as the wound in Hopkins’ side, though, and after a couple of minutes Sherlock pulled the handkerchief away. No new blood pooled in the wound. 

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock said finally. His heart rate was beginning to slow, and every breath Hopkins took eased the panic that coiled tightly in his own chest. 

“I know.”

“An idiot and a bloody _fool_.”

“I know.”

“I swear to God, Hopkins, if you ever do something like this again –“

“What, get shot by someone I didn’t even see coming?”

Sherlock couldn’t tell which one of them moved first, but a moment later his mouth was crushed against Hopkins’. He fisted one hand into Hopkins’ shirt and cradled the back of his head with the other, tasting salt on the other man’s lips. Hopkins cupped Sherlock’s face with one hand and parted his lips under the relentless press of Sherlock’s tongue, kissing him back just as fiercely. It was desperate and needy, and Hopkins kissed like a starved man being offered his first meal--hungry and aching, it was as though he expected it never to happen again.

“I’m all right,” Hopkins said breathlessly when they parted. “I’m – Sherlock, I’m _okay_.”

“I know.” Sherlock kept his fingers tangled in Hopkins’ hair. He pressed their foreheads together; squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in the sharp scent of Hopkins’ sweat and blood. “I _know.”_

“Come on. I need to call this in,” Hopkins said wearily. He allowed Sherlock to pull him to his feet, wincing as his injuries were jostled. “Who was this guy?”

They stepped over the body and out into the corridor. Sherlock used his foot to turn over the man’s ID badge, which was clipped to the front of his shirt. 

“Anthony Dawlins,” he read off quietly. “This was his office.”

“But was that his kill room?”

“Even if it wasn’t, he obviously knew about it, or he never would have fired on us.”

Hopkins raked a hand through his hair. “Fuck. Ron’s never going to forgive me for this.”

In the end, though, Hopkins’ friend was far more forgiving than either of them deserved.

“He was always a quiet one, Tony,” Ron told the officers interviewing him sadly. “Never thought him capable of such horror, but I s’pose you can never tell for sure.”

“We don’t actually know that he had anything to do with this, Ron,” Hopkins said, but his words were far from convincing. “I truly am sorry for all the trouble –”

Ron looked at him as though he was mad.

“One of my own workers shot you and you’re the one who’s sorry?” he asked incredulously, gesturing at Hopkins’ injuries. “Jesus, man, you haven’t changed in twenty years, have you?”

“Don’t write that down,” Hopkins said dryly to Sherlock, who had been put in charge of writing everything down in Hopkins’ notebook. Hopkins was holding his left arm tightly against his side in order to keep pressure on the wound, and as a result he couldn’t write. If Sherlock and Donovan had had their way, he wouldn’t even be doing this much. But Hopkins had refused Sherlock’s offer of a chair and he wouldn’t allow Donovan to send him to the hospital. He insisted on being the one to interview Ron, and he wouldn’t leave the scene until everyone else had left, too.

It was going to be a long night.

Hopkins had allowed Sherlock to only check the wound once since the shooting. At the time, blood was starting to seep through the scarf. That was almost half an hour ago, and Sherlock didn’t want to think about what it looked like now.

Eventually, though, the body was taken away, the questions were exhausted, and Hopkins ran out of apologies he could make to Ron. He was in quiet conversation with Donovan about how they should proceed from here when his mobile went off. 

“Shit,” Hopkins muttered as he glanced at the screen. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him, but Donovan appeared to know right away what had happened.

"Chief?” she asked, and Hopkins nodded. He stepped away to answer the call, which took less than half a minute. When he returned, his lips were set into a thin line. 

“Chief Superintendent. He wants to have a word about tonight.” 

Sherlock drove Hopkins back to the Yard, because he didn’t trust the Inspector’s bloodless face and the way the occasional tremor ripped through his frame. Hopkins allowed Sherlock to take over without protest, and he spent the ride in silence, one hand still applying pressure to the wound on his torso.

“That might need sutures,” Sherlock pointed out. Hopkins shook his head wordlessly. His face was still white. “Have you ever been shot before, Hopkins?”

“Never even been shot _at_ ,” Hopkins muttered. “Christ.”

Max Guerra had only been Chief Superintendent for three years, but Sherlock far preferred him to his predecessor. He had an air of weary resignation about him, and he was willing to let a lot of things slide so long as he saw results. At the same time, however, there were certain things he refused to compromise on, and he wouldn’t allow himself to be taken advantage of. Sherlock could admire that, even if it had caused him headaches in the past three years.

Guerra was a big man – not quite as tall as Sherlock and Hopkins, but at least twice as wide. He was a remarkably calm man, too, and he merely lifted an eyebrow when he saw Hopkins’ state. 

“Betcha that hurts like a bitch,” he grunted when Hopkins appeared in his office doorway. “Sit down, son. Actually, on second thought, don’t; I don’t need you bleeding all over my chair. Just stand there. You too, Holmes.”

Sherlock, who had turned to wait in the corridor now that he had delivered Hopkins—in relatively one piece—to his destination, paused. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Holmes,” Guerra went on. He pointed at the empty spot next to Hopkins. “You, _too_.”

Sherlock approached the desk and stood there with his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“I suppose it would be too much to ask for an explanation for what happened tonight,” Guerra sighed. He took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair, regarding them both heavily.

“I had a hunch and I followed it up without consulting my team,” Hopkins said at once. “And I brought Holmes along because I thought he might be useful. Seeing as he saved my life, it turns out that I was right.”

Guerra lifted an eyebrow.

“Well, Stan, you’re nothing if not honest, aren’t you?” he said dryly. “They’re telling me you found the kill site, is that right?”

“We won’t know for sure until Forensics can get in there,” Hopkins said. “But if you’re asking for my opinion – yes. We found where he takes them.”

“Christ,” Guerra said, shaking his head. “And in the name of all that is holy, Holmes, please tell me that you shot that man in self-defense.”

“He had shot an officer of the Met twice before I got to him. He was on his feet with a gun in his hand, plainly meaning to do both of us harm. I didn’t shoot him in the back, and it wasn’t unprovoked,” Sherlock said shortly. Guerra considered him for a moment before giving a tight nod.

“And tell me, the man who died – is that our killer?”

“Anderson will have to see if he can match the man’s DNA, even partially, to one of the samples we pulled from Sarah Burlough,” Hopkins said. “But Anthony Dawlins has been an employee of McCormack Industries for over twenty years. That’s as long as the killings have been happening, yes, but that still means someone else would have had to supply him with the specialized paint.”

“Hm,” Guerra grunted. “Well, either way, that’s a major break for this case. Even if it was a bloody stupid thing for you to have done, Hopkins. I expect better from you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take the rest of the night off. Let your team finish processing the scene. Get yourself patched up, and take some time to contemplate how bloody careless you were. You could have compromised the entire case.”

“Yes, sir.”

Guerra pointed the end of his pen at Hopkins. “I don’t want to see you here before eight in the morning tomorrow, Stan, is that clear? I don’t know what happened to the Inspector I know, but he and your common sense seem to have fled, and this is a bloody awful time for that to have happened. Take tonight to get your head back on right.”

“Yes, sir.”

Guerra’s eyes flicked to Sherlock. “And I expect better of you, Holmes.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the incredulous snort. 

“Do you?” he asked dryly. Guerra rolled his eyes.

“No,” he said. “Not at all. Except where Stan is concerned. I don’t need something like this happening again, gents, is that clear?”

They both nodded, and Guerra sighed.

“Right, get out of here, both of you. And Holmes – make sure this one gets home.”

 

Sherlock drove them both back to Hopkins’ house. He humoured Hopkins’ brief examination of him and, once Hopkins had been satisfied that Sherlock was largely uninjured, he allowed himself to be steered into the bathroom.

"Ruined your scarf," Hopkins noted morosely as Sherlock peeled the bloody material from around his chest. It took the two of them to get Hopkins' shirt off because the wound pained him so, but eventually they worked it off his arms without straining his chest too much. Sherlock deposited both garments in a corner. They could be dealt with later.

"Ruined your shirt," Sherlock pointed out. "We'll dispose of them later. Come on, up."

“You’re awfully calm for a man who has just killed someone,” Hopkins said as Sherlock began tending to the wound on his torso. He was sitting on the counter now, his knees bracketing Sherlock’s hips while Sherlock stood between his legs. Every once in a while Hopkins’ foot brushed against Sherlock’s knee, almost absently.

“And you’re awfully talkative for a man who nearly went on a suicide mission alone,” Sherlock retorted, and Hopkins pursed his lips. “I’ve killed before, and with less provocation. Don’t expect me to feel remorse over that man.”

Hopkins was quiet for a long while.

“Have you had to do that a lot?” he asked finally. Sherlock finished cleaning the wound and started applying the regenerative ointment. The wound should be healed over by morning, though the new flesh would be pink and raw for a few days after. 

“Kill someone? Not in recent years,” Sherlock said. At the look on Hopkins’ face, he added, “It’s still an odd feeling, if that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t lose sleep over it.”

“I assume you’ve been shot in return.”

“Shot _at_ , mostly, but yes – sometimes they got lucky.” Sherlock pulled his shirt to reveal a jagged scar along his hip, and another just above it – an obvious bullet wound. “Both of those are from a case John and I worked during the second year of our association.”

“Looks like that hurt,” Hopkins said, brushing his fingers over the mottled flesh. 

“It wasn’t exactly pleasant,” Sherlock admitted dryly. He dropped his shirt and picked up a roll of bandages. “Hold your arms out.”

Hopkins obliged, and Sherlock bound his chest. Mostly, this was to keep the wound protected until the ointment had chance to take hold. It was no longer bleeding, and didn’t appear to be in any danger of opening up again, but one couldn’t be too careful. When he had finished, Hopkins dropped his arms. His shoulders slumped, and he heaved a great sigh.

“It’s over,” Sherlock said quietly, squeezing Hopkins’ arms in what he hoped was a bracing manner. “It’s over, Stanley. We found the kill site, and it appears that someone who was involved in these killings is dead.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s over and you know it. It’s highly improbable that you shot the actual killer,” Hopkins said. He sighed. “But thanks for trying. I appreciate it.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair. It was only then that Sherlock noticed that his fingers were shaking slightly.

Sherlock stepped back, casting an appraising glance over his work. But what he noticed instead was that Hopkins’ face was ashen, and that deep purple crescents pooled under his eyes. When he slid off the counter and looked at Sherlock, his gaze was bloodshot. He was worn at the edges, weary, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to wipe away the marks this case was leaving on him.

“You should sleep,” he said finally, brushing his thumb over the creases at the corner of one of Hopkins’ eyes. 

Hopkins stepped closer and Sherlock reached out to meet him, his hands framing Hopkins’ hips while Hopkins curled his own around Sherlock’s upper arms. His mouth was soft and warm--entirely unexpected. Sherlock had expected this kiss to be as severe and disciplined as Hopkins himself, but here, when they away from the adrenaline and rush of the chase, he found that it was actually exceedingly gentle.

They parted after an age. Sherlock’s mouth was dry and a thin sheen of sweat had broken out across his forehead. A tight warmth was beginning to coil low in his belly, and his blood was already rushing south. He had quite forgotten - he had _missed_ -

His thoughts stuttered to a halt as Hopkins slid his fingers between his own. He gave a gentle tug, and Sherlock, blood pounding in his ears and heart knocking erratically against his ribcage, followed him into the bedroom.


	13. Chapter 13

There was a streetlamp directly outside Hopkins’ bedroom window, and it glowed silver from dusk to dawn. 

Sherlock had often heard Hopkins complain about the light, irritated as he was about its placement and persistent brightness. If ever he was remiss at night in closing the heavy curtains that framed his window, he was invariably woken in the middle of that night thinking that it was day, the lamp was so bright.

Sherlock woke now, as the clock approached two, and groaned when he realised both the hour and the fact that they had forgot about the curtains in their haste a few hours before. The streetlamp was just as glaring as Hopkins had described, and Sherlock was surprised that it hadn’t yet woken him. 

Sighing, he lifted Hopkins’ arm off his chest as gently as he could manage and got up to close the curtains. Gooseflesh erupted on his chest and arms as the cool air of the house assaulted his naked body, and it was with great relief that he accomplished his task and slid into bed once again. Hopkins bled warmth, and the bed felt divine.

He roused when Sherlock caused the mattress to dip and, despite the lateness of the hour and their mutual exhaustion, gave a groggy smile when Sherlock leaned over and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Time’s it?”

“Two. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’all right.” Hopkins gave a tremendous yawn that he tried to stifle with the back of his hand. “Everything okay?”

“Yes. Go back to sleep, Hopkins.”

Hopkins gave a weak snort and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“At this point, Sherlock,” he whispered, “you should probably call me Stanley.”

Sherlock slid an arm underneath his body and pulled him closer, so that Hopkins’ head was resting on his chest and one of his legs was thrown across both of Sherlock’s own.

“You found that unsettling, last time I checked,” Sherlock said quietly. He wrapped an arm around Hopkins’ shoulders and pulled him close. Hopkins’ arm tightened around his chest once more. 

“That was before this happened,” Hopkins pointed out, amused. He lifted his head off Sherlock’s chest and gave him a slow, lingering kiss. 

“Stanley,” Sherlock whispered against the pliant lips, trying out the name on his tongue. He only ever used it very occasionally, and it sent a shiver down his spine. 

Stanley hummed against his mouth, and then he gave a low chuckle as Sherlock ran a slow finger down his back, tracing each of his vertebrae. Sherlock’s hand came to rest first on Stanley’s lumbar curve, and then on his flank. He squeezed lightly. Stanley groaned and broke the kiss.

“Were I twenty years younger,” he whispered regretfully. 

Sherlock had to laugh at that, because twenty years ago his own libido had been nearly nonexistent, and it hadn’t changed much since then. But he’d found over the years that it was impossible to explain to others that, while he possessed almost zero interest in sex, he could also be almost insatiable when a sufficiently brilliant and clever person came along.

“I say something funny?” Stanley murmured sleepily as the silence stretched on. Sherlock dipped a finger into the cleft of his arse, and he gave an undignified squeak. 

“You probably wouldn’t have liked to know me twenty years ago,” Sherlock said, lightly teasing. Stanley kissed him. 

“Oh, yes, I would have,” he said earnestly. “I’ve seen pictures. You were gorgeous, mate.”

“ _Were_?”

Stanley laughed, and Sherlock kissed him, and for a time he forgot it was two in the morning, and that at some point this moment would end. He smoothed a hand over Stanley’s shoulder blades and down his back, brushing his palm over the bandages that bound the gunshot wound.

“Feel all right?” he asked quietly, and Stanley nodded.

“I feel fantastic.”

Eventually, Stanley fell asleep again, but Sherlock remained awake, trying to wrap his head around the absurdity of it all. Just hours ago they had gone on a mad-cap chase after two men involved in one of the longest serial killing sprees to hit London, one of their suspects was dead, they had discovered the kill site…

… And all he could bring himself to care about was this moment, and the man in his arms. 

They woke for the second time that morning about an hour before Stanley’s alarm was set to go off. The hour was an unseemly one but, shattered as they had been by the previous night’s events, they had first gone to bed almost ten hours ago. As a result, Sherlock awoke feeling as though it was mid-morning, and the gaze that met his when he turned to look at Stanley was warm and clear. 

They didn’t have buttons to fumble with this time, and after having spent a night together under the bedclothes, their hands and feet were warm. This time there were no hisses or undignified squeaks as cold fingers pressed against sensitive skin, and Sherlock could tuck his feet between Stanley’s calves without causing him to yelp. 

This morning was calm and languid where last night had been intense and life-affirming. Stanley’s body, while far from familiar to Sherlock, was no longer uncharted territory. Sherlock now knew a couple of choice spots where he could press his lips and elicit a strangled gasp, and he knew where Stanley preferred he put his hands. Stanley shuddered under him and murmured something breathless and incoherent against his mouth; Sherlock, when he came, did so while Stanley pumped him with one hand and fingered his arse with the other. 

“Swear to God, Stanley,” Sherlock whispered, resting his sweaty forehead against Stanley’s, “we should’ve done this sooner.”

Stanley framed Sherlock’s hips with his hands and kissed him. And then they kissed again, Sherlock tentatively settling his weight on top of Stanley and sliding his arms under Stanley’s shoulders. Soon they were wrapped around each other, legs entwined, Stanley’s hips pressed against his own and the hard muscles of his back leaping under Sherlock’s hands. This morning Stanley’s kisses were silver and smooth, and the sleep-sour taste of his mouth was as sweet as anything Sherlock had ever tasted. Sherlock mapped his mouth thoroughly, carefully, memorizing the tips of his canines and his slightly-crooked incisors, and the way Stanley’s smile felt under his lips when Sherlock kissed the corner of his mouth. 

They missed Stanley’s alarm the first time it went off, as occupied as they were, and when it went off again ten minutes later Stanley let out a quiet curse. 

“Gotta go, old man,” he said regretfully as Sherlock pressed his face into Stanley’s neck. He nipped the sensitive skin there and surfaced again. “That alarm cuts it close as it is. I’m gonna be late.”

“Five more minutes,” Sherlock said, knowing that it would be more on the order of ten – and knowing that Stanley wasn’t going to say no. 

He wasn’t quite ready to give this night up.

“Five minutes, my arse. You’re going to be the death of me,” Stanley muttered good-naturedly some time later as he bent down over an armchair in the main room to give Sherlock a brief farewell kiss. His hair was still damp from his shower, and he had dressed in haste. 

Sherlock breathed in the sharp scent of his soap and tried to ignore the pain in his gut, as though he had been physically struck by Stanley’s words. He reached up to redo the top three buttons of Stanley’s shirt, slotting them through the proper holes, and affected an air of nonchalance. Stanley stilled, though, apparently realising the error in his words.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”

“It’s fine.”

Stanley shook his head. “It was the other way around, Sherlock. You had nothing to do with me being there.”

_ I let you go _ , Sherlock thought, but at the look on Stanley’s face he simply said, “I know.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.” They kissed again, until finally Stanley was forced to pull away. Sherlock attempted a light tone. “Try not to get shot at again today.”

Stanley gave a wan smile, which Sherlock tried to return, and he ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair before finally departing the house.

 

Sherlock returned to Baker Street not long after Stanley left for the Yard. He showered, but that did little to ease the knot in his stomach, and the bitter taste in the back of his mouth lingered despite the strong cup of coffee he fixed for himself. 

He wanted to return to two in the morning; to the hour of night when sharing a bed with Stanley – sharing _with_ Stanley – didn’t feel like a betrayal. He wanted to return to that cold February night, and to the heated kisses that tasted like honey. 

But he couldn’t go back, and he couldn’t erase what happened. Whatever occurred under the blanket of night or behind a thin veil of alcohol seemed right at the time, but here in the daylight, he was struck cold by all that they had done – and by the stark realisation that it couldn’t happen again.

He couldn’t do this. He had been fooling himself all along. It wasn’t just that he had nearly caused the death of someone else he cared deeply for—despite Stanley’s denials, Sherlock could have easily prevented them both from going last night. More than that, he could have—and should have—prevented their growing intimacy.

Because no matter how much he wanted it—and he had so _desperately_ wanted it to happen—he couldn’t escape the fact that he was trying to love another with the intensity with which he had loved Victor, and that simply couldn’t happen. He’d had his great love. How could he possibly contemplate replacing him with another?

Sherlock’s m ood deteriorated as the morning dragged on. He went from mildly discontent to feeling foul, and everything set his teeth on edge. He couldn’t stop thinking of Stanley, but it wasn’t with fondness that he thought back on their night together. Now the memory of Stanley’s mouth against his own made him curl his lip, and remembering Stanley spread out beneath him, flushed and wanting, left Sherlock merely feeling uneasy.

_ I’m so sorry, Victor. _

Sherlock sat in the kitchen with his head buried in his hands. Working on his website had done nothing to improve his mood, and none of his experiments were sufficiently compelling. He tried to read for a time – his mythology was growing rusty – but even that wasn’t enough of a distraction from his restless thoughts. 

This was why he didn’t do this; why over the years, when he was at his lowest, he went to a pub and picked up the stranger who most resembled Victor and allowed the man to fuck him blind. He had tried to assuage his grief over the years with men he would never have to see again, and it had been enough—or so he thought, at least. But now he was letting himself get embroiled in an affair that had no good outcome, for he couldn’t love one man without betraying the other.

_ Caring isn’t an advantage _ , Mycroft always said, and Sherlock should have heeded his advice. 

It had been so much less complicated before he kissed Stanley, even though at the time it had felt right. At the time, it felt as though a dam had finally given way in his chest, and a pressure that had been building for years finally eased. It felt _right_.

But just because something felt right didn’t mean it was the correct course of action, as Lestrade had reminded him so many times over the years. Sherlock should have known better than to let emotions get the better of his judgment.

_ I don’t think that’s what Greg meant _ , the John-voice in his head pointed out helpfully. 

Sherlock really wished that the voice would bugger off.

\----

Sherlock found Molly in the morgue. 

“What’s the first insect to appear at the site of decomposing remains?” Molly asked him as he entered the morgue. She was bent over the exposed arm of a corpse on her table. The rest of the body had been covered by a grey sheet.

“Calliphoridae,” Sherlock answered. “They usually arrive within a few minutes of death, no matter where the body might be.”

“Blow flies,” Molly murmured to herself. “And they usually deposit their eggs within three hours?”

“Correct. Why?”

“I can’t tell you.” She straightened, snapped off her gloves, and flashed him a grin. “But if my hunch is right, you might have another case gracing your plate at some point in the coming weeks. Strictly murder.”

That would be a nice change, Sherlock had to admit, and he gave her a grateful nod.

“Something I can help you with?” she asked as she washed up.

“No,” Sherlock said, and then couldn’t think of any reason for why he might have come down here, and so said nothing further. Molly, to her credit, didn’t appear fazed. When she left the morgue, he followed, and they both ended up back in her lab.

“Well, since you’re here,” she said, pulling out a stool and indicating that he should sit before one of the microscopes, “you can help me with this. I have fifteen petri dishes I’ve been growing cultures in, and I need to record today’s results. But the death of Mr X back there really backed me up today, and I’m running behind. Get started on them for me?”

She handed him a notebook and indicated where she had been keeping a running tally of the number of growth spots that had appeared in each petri dish over the course of the past five days. While Sherlock set to work on that, Molly then moved over to one of the computers and began entering all of the data she had obtained from her newest addition to the morgue.

Sherlock had always admired her efficiency, and her ability to detach herself emotionally from the work. It was the one area that she excelled in while he failed, in fact, and Sherlock would be lying if he said that didn’t cause him a slight bit of envy. He had always prided himself on his ability to remove himself mentally from a situation, no matter the crime or the victim. It was necessary for getting the work done and getting it done well. In their chosen occupations, they could not afford to let emotions get in the way.

He had failed at that once, and only once, and it had cost him Victor’s life. He had not noticed the ominous signs until it was far too late. He had not noticed the glaringly obvious because he had allowed himself to become emotionally invested in the situation; because he was so focused on protecting—and avenging—those at home that he didn’t focus enough attention on what was happening to the one closest to him.

He was careless, and Victor got sick. He was oblivious, and Victor died.

And fifteen years ago, Molly had come into work on the evening of Christmas Day so that she could be the one to tend to Victor’s body. She saw to Victor whilst wearing a white lab coat over her bright party dress, her painted lips drawn together in a thin line and her face impassive. She was a doctor first and a friend second that night, and she did what was necessary in order to properly tend to her charge.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had waited in the corridor while Molly conducted the autopsy. He’d sat on the ground with his forehead pressed to his knees, brain stuttering and unable to process anything. He’d been of no use to Victor in the final months of his life, and he was of no use then. He went to Baker Street afterwards and spent days quietly falling apart. Molly, during that time, was a constant source of calm and reason; a wealth of rationality that Sherlock normally found in himself. Such logic was noticeably absent in the months after Victor’s death, and so he had come to rely heavily on her. Her judgment was sound then.

Her judgment was sound still.

“I slept with Inspector Hopkins.”

Molly didn’t look up from her work.

“Yes,” she said.

“It –” Sherlock stopped. _It’s wrong. I shouldn’t be so content_. “He’s not Victor.”

Now Molly looked at him.

“Of course he’s not,” she said levelly. “You’ve had your Victor. Why would you want another one?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then say what you mean.”

_ I did _ , Sherlock thought in irritation. Instead, he said, “I only meant  -” and stopped.

_ I only meant, would Victor have minded? _

“Sometimes I wonder if he said anything the night he died.” Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck wearily, trying to press away the ache of exhaustion and stress. “I don’t entirely recall.”

A brief look of concern flashed across Molly’s face, but she hid it quickly.

“I wasn’t there,” she said gently, as though she thought he might have forgotten. “No one was, Sherlock. Just you.”

He remembered that much, of course, but sometimes the night of Victor’s death felt more like a hazy, terrible nightmare than something he had actually experienced. It was foggy and unclear in his mind, and some details Sherlock was sure were imagined. Sometimes, he remembered Victor holding his hand up until the end; other times, he remembered instead clutching Victor’s barely-responsive fingers, because Victor was so far gone at that point that he hardly noticed what was happening around him.

On the worst days, Sherlock remembered whispered assurances and a litany of _I love you_ , but that couldn’t have been real. Victor was never one for voicing what was already known, and Sherlock had never needed to hear the obvious.

Not at the time, at least. Now, however, he could have used the comfort of those words.

“I don’t suppose I might have mentioned something afterwards,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Like what?”

Sherlock swallowed hard.

“Sometimes I wonder,” he said softly, “if he might have said… if he might have told me what I was supposed to do after he was gone. Because… because I don’t know what he wanted, and I don’t know what to do.”

Molly came over to sit next to him on a neighbouring stool. She smelled faintly of antiseptic and laundry soap, but not of perfume. Molly never wore perfume.

“He said your name,” she said softly. “That’s all. He said your name, and then he was gone.”

She took his hand and held it, much like she had done on that night fifteen years ago. They had sat together much like this in the morgue, Victor’s cooling body already on a slab before them, the sheet pulled down to his chest because Sherlock wouldn’t let anyone cover his face. They had sat in silence for close to two hours, until finally Molly had whispered, “Let me take care of him now,” and Sherlock had retreated to the corridor. He’d known that no one could take better care of Victor than Molly.

“I remember,” Sherlock whispered.

“And do you know what else I think he’d have said, if he’d had the strength?” Molly squeezed his hand. “‘Like generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.’”

“‘As one generation comes to life, another dies away,’” Sherlock finished with a grim smile.

“You told me once that he liked the classics.”

Sherlock nodded. “ _The Iliad_ was one of his favourites. ‘Why so much grief for me? No man will hurl me down to Death, against my fate.’ Yes, that was very like him.”

He added dryly, “I suppose it’s also no small irony that its sequel involves a man returning home from war to a wife who thought him dead.”

“Victor always had a bit of dramatic flair about him, didn’t he?” Molly said. She gave an understanding smile. “You two were rather well suited for one another.”

She let go of his hand and patted his knee. “But that was another time, and you were someone else back then. Victor’s greatest flaw was that he was obsessive, and it made him short-sighted. You were everything to him, and he went to every length to protect you—even if it ultimately meant that you got hurt in the end. He couldn’t quite understand that, because nothing mattered other than keeping you safe. He was a story, Sherlock. He was larger than life. Stanley Hopkins is none of those things, and I think it’s for the better. You don’t need stories anymore, but you do need him. Victor would understand.”

“I’m not entirely certain that he would.”

“He’s also not exactly around anymore to make that judgment.”

It stung, but she was right. Victor was the sum of the makeup of the grey matter in his head, and that had decomposed years ago. There was nothing left of him that could pass any kind of judgment on Sherlock, and nothing left of him that could give the kind of approval Sherlock seemed to need.

Molly got to her feet. “Don’t let a man who has already passed dictate how you live out the rest of your life—especially when all he ever wanted to do was make you happy. He may have gone about it entirely the wrong way, but his intentions were genuine. So the question you need to be asking isn’t what would make Victor happy, but what would make _you_ happy, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment.

“I don’t know that I should answer that,” he said finally. Molly touched his arm, her eyebrows furrowing in deep concern.

“I think you need to,” she said softly. “Tell me. What would make you _happy_?”

Sherlock met her gaze steadily.

“Having Victor back.”

Molly’s face crumpled, and Sherlock turned on his heel and left the lab without a backward glance.

\----

Stanley spent three days putting out the fires from their escapade to McCormack Industries. 

Sherlock received periodic updates from Donovan via text, as he was trying to keep his interactions with Stanley at a minimum. Besides, he had a feeling that Stanley would catch hell from Guerra if he found out that Stanley was involving Sherlock in more of the investigation than he already had. But there was very little Donovan could tell him, apart from the fact that Forensics was going to be spending days properly processing the kill room, as there was an abundance of evidence to sort through. 

He finally heard from Stanley at the end of the third day.

_ Dinner? I’ll pick it up after my shift. _

Sherlock missed their interactions, no matter how much he tried to pretend to himself otherwise these past few days, and he responded instantly.

_ Yes. _

Stanley arrived back at the flat a little after seven, and Sherlock couldn’t help the tiny leap in his chest when he heard the tell-tale slam of the door downstairs and then Stanley’s footsteps as he took the stairs two at a time. Guilt settled, hot and heavy, in his stomach, and when Stanley kissed him in greeting Sherlock simultaneously wanted to relax into the kiss and push him away.

“You all right, old man?” Stanley asked quietly, pulling back and giving Sherlock a reassuring smile.

“Fine.”

Stanley shrugged and moved away. Sherlock turned so that his back was to the main room, and he stared out of the tall windows while Stanley got himself settled.

It was raining.

“What’s the news from the Yard?” Sherlock asked finally.

“Guerra’s not exactly the forgiving sort,” Stanley said. “Not that I don’t deserve it, mind, but I could do without him hanging over my shoulder right now.”

“And the case?”

“It looks like we can confirm that Anthony Dawlins was our accomplice, but not our actual killer,”  Stanley answered. “He has an alibi for every kill so far, and one that can be corroborated a number of different ways.”

“So he provided the kill site, and perhaps nothing more,” Sherlock said.  Stanley nodded. “What about that room?”

Stanley rubbed his forehead wearily.

“They’re still processing it,” he said quietly. “There’s a hell of a lot for them to look at. The killer wasn’t too concerned about keeping it pristine. There are fingerprints everywhere and DNA on the mattress. There’s only one thing we can say for certain at this point. He’s going to have to change his kill site.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “but not his hunting grounds.”

Stanley gave him a skeptical look.

“Are you sure about that?” he asked. “If I were him, I’d get the fuck out of London. Staying isn’t worth the risk.”

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s not going to do that. For some reason, he _needs_ to find his victims here. If not, he would have cleared out long ago, probably not long after that first press conference. But he stayed, Stanley, and I think that means something.”

Stanley rubbed the back of his neck wearily. The collar of his shirt shifted, exposing part of his neck that usually remained hidden, and Sherlock caught sight of a now-fading mark he had sucked into Stanley’s skin three nights ago. He swallowed and looked away.

“I’m not telling the public about this,”  Stanley was saying when Sherlock managed to shake the memory of Stanley’s moans from his mind.

“Sorry, what?”

“We never told the public there were two suspects in the first place. We have a body, and we have the kill site,” Stanley told him. “I’m going to imply that we think the man you killed that night is actually our killer, given that it was his office where the kill site was discovered, and that the case is wrapping up. Our actual killer will hang around even longer once he realises I’m not going to pursue him. Maybe he’ll even grow comfortable and make a mistake.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. It was probably the best course of action, he had to admit that, but likely was also the kind of suggestion that would have got him in trouble had he made it ten, fifteen years ago. 

“Do you think it’ll work?”

Stanley shrugged. “I’ll try anything, at this point. There’s been a hell of a lot of pressure since the beginning to get this wrapped up. The fact that it’s dragged on for so long has the higher-ups nervous. Now that we have the kill site and an abundance of evidence, they’re going to want a name quickly. I need to flush out this killer as quickly as possible, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded absently. He turned back to the window and watched the rain. Stanley came up behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Sherlock said nothing for a long while, and Stanley wrapped his other arm around Sherlock’s collarbone. He rested his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder and molded himself to Sherlock’s back. Sherlock swallowed hard as the solid warmth of Stanley bled through his shirt.

Stanley pressed a kiss to his temple. “What’s got your mind in a muddle now, old man?”

Sherlock didn’t register the question right away, and by the time he dredged up an answer Stanley had pulled away. He was now standing in front of Sherlock, his back to the window. He looked concerned.

“What’s happened?” he asked quietly. “Christ, man, you look like hell.”

Sherlock felt the strength leave his limbs, and he slumped, no longer able to hold his rigid posture. Stanley pressed his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders, steadying him.

“Bad day,” Sherlock whispered. 

“I can tell,” Stanley said gently, and his words bled concern. “Tell me. Was it Mycroft?”

Sherlock gave a harsh laugh. “No, Stanley, it’s all me. I’m – I’m a fool.”

“You’re not –“

“I _am_ ,” Sherlock said emphatically. “I’m a fool, and now I’ve dragged you into it, too, and I just – I can’t –”

Stanley rested his hand on the side of Sherlock’s throat, and he stroked a thumb along Sherlock’s jaw.

“What is it?” he asked quietly. “What can’t you do?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “This. You and me and… this. It isn’t going to work, Stanley. I can’t do _this_.”

He fought to keep it level as he said this, and winced at the pain that flickered across Stanley’s face. He looked as though he had been slapped, and he dropped his hand and took a step back.

“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered. 

Stanley said nothing for a very long while, and Sherlock hated himself; hated that he needed to do this. For a brief, terrible moment, he wished that he had never met Stanley.

“All right,” Stanley said at length, his voice quiet but steady. He plucked his jacket off the back of the door and opened it. “Good night, Sherlock.”

He left quietly, without fuss, and when the downstairs door shut behind him Sherlock felt as though he had been punched in the chest.

 

That night, Sherlock dreamed of a chase. 

He dreamed of a man who had been loved and lost twice over; a shade who remained just one step ahead of him and who was always out of reach. They were dashing through a darkened street, Sherlock’s breathing echoing in his ears and nearly drowning out the footsteps of the man he was pursuing. But then, as the man rounded a corner, Sherlock reached out his hand...

…. and closed it around Victor’s bicep.

Victor turned, and Sherlock froze, rendered immobile by the shock of finally having caught him.

“Sherlock,” Victor said softly, a gentle smile on his face.

“Victor,” Sherlock whispered, breathless. “Are you - I -”

“It’s all right,” Victor said calmly. “You can let me go.”

“What?” Sherlock asked stupidly. “No.”

But when he blinked, he was grasping empty air.

Sherlock woke all at once, chest heaving, his heart still pounding from the imagined chase. His right hand was curled into a tight fist, nails biting into his palms. It still tingled with the lingering, phantom sensation of Victor’s jacket, and the warmth from his skin.

He had been so close, _so close_ , this time. Victor had looked at him, Victor had spoken, and Sherlock’s gut twisted at the memory. He was never going to see that face again, he couldn’t even properly remember the voice, and the indignity of having caught Victor only to lose him again was almost too much.

Sherlock choked back great lungfuls of air, trying to slow his breathing and calm his heart, but a handful of broken sobs slipped past his lips instead. He gritted his teeth and clamped his eyes shut, resting his forehead on bent knees as he struggled to bring himself back under control. He hadn’t felt pain this acute in years, not since the day they buried Victor.

He didn’t sleep again that night.

\----

Sherlock had lunch with Mycroft the next afternoon.

They dined in the same opulent restaurant, filled to bursting even on a Wednesday. Sherlock picked at his food and drank his wine without truly tasting it, thinking of Stanley in the conference room with images of the victims and the dead suspect plastered on the wall, and people bringing him reports every half an hour, reports that said nothing more than  _We’re still working on it._ He’d probably forget to eat, the useless bastard.

“You’re worried about him.”

Sherlock couldn’t tell what was making him feel worse – the actual look on Stanley’s face right before the left the flat the other night or the imagined look on Victor’s when Sherlock pictured him finding out about Stanley. Both were equally nauseating. 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered finally.

“I can increase his security.”

“That’s not what concerns me.” Sherlock focused on a woman sitting to his left. Her back was to him, her golden hair twisted in a bun that was so high it concealed the face of her dining companion. He stared at her for a long moment-- _two dogs, ten years married, a painter_ \--before his thoughts settled and he could look at Mycroft again. “We found the kill room, and one of the suspects is dead.”

“But not the killer.”

“No, I don’t think so. Stanley’s not going to handle that well.” Sherlock worried a loose thread on his napkin between two fingers, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “There’s nothing you can do.”

It was half a question, and Mycroft answered it accordingly.

“My resources are not infinite, Sherlock. I have been putting my own people onto the case, but they have had as much luck as the Yard, I’m afraid.”

“I see.”

They ate in silence for a while.

“I was doing some reading the other day,” Sherlock said at length. “I’m rusty on my Greek mythology.”

“Oh?” Mycroft made a good show of feigning interest, at least. “And have you come to learn anything interesting?”

“The poet Hesiod proposed that there were five ages of man,” Sherlock said quietly. “The first was the Golden Age, a period of time where humans were fashioned by the gods and lived out long lives of peace and harmony. And they were – they were oblivious of death. When they died, it was peacefully, and in their sleep. It was an age of harmony… and of perfection.”

Mycroft remained silent, but Sherlock knew he was listening.

“It was followed, then,” he said dully, “by the Silver Age—an age where men were less noble than the ones who had come before. They aged, and they were plagued by war, and eventually they died. It was… an imperfect age. A lesser age.”

“And is that how you see your life?” Mycroft said at last. “That you’ve had a golden age – and that everything that comes after it pales by comparison?”

“It’s just a story, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, dropping his eyes to his plate. “I don’t know. It’s just something that I read.”

Mycroft poured himself another glass of wine.

“Just something that you read,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Interesting. Tell me, does this _something that you read_ have anything to do with why Inspector Hopkins left so abruptly the other night?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said stiffly, his stomach twisting. They stared at one another for a long moment, until finally Sherlock dropped his eyes to his plate.

“His only crime is that he’s not Victor,” Mycroft said at last. “Ease up on him, brother dear. How is he supposed to compete with a dead man?”

Sherlock wrestled with an irrational burst of anger and took a long swallow from his own glass. 

“He wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t decided to meddle in Victor’s life all those years ago,” he snarled at last.

Mycroft ignored him.

“You could no more have stopped Inspector Hopkins from going out that night than you could have the Earth from spinning,” he said. “You play long-suffering well, Sherlock, but that’s all it ever is – play. You hide behind your guilt over Victor’s death and you use it as an excuse to keep from moving on. You use _him_ as an excuse. And I don’t think he’d really appreciate it, do you?”

Sherlock took a bitter swallow of wine. He was too sober for this conversation, and he was starting to feel physically ill. He wished Mycroft would leave well enough alone.

“Inspector Hopkins feels everything too much,” Mycroft went on. “You won’t allow yourself to feel anything at all—or you try not to, at least. But there are flaws in that plan that even you never foresaw, Sherlock. Victor was one of them, and he forced you to feel more than you wanted to. Hopkins is another, and he’s making you feel what you never thought was possible again. You two are quite well suited for one another.”

Sherlock downed the rest of his wine and set his glass aside, his hand unsteady.

“We’re not -” he said, and stopped abruptly. His brain, it seemed, would no longer allow him to say the words aloud.

“Yes,” Mycroft said patiently into the silence, “you _are.”_


	14. Chapter 14

The air of pre-dawn London was sharp and biting.

It stung Sherlock’s nose and ears, and his lungs protested every cold breath he drew into his chest. But soon the cool air was a welcome relief as his body heated and blood started thrumming through his extremities. 

Running, he had found, was an odd combination of pleasant and painful at this delicate time of year, when the air outside was still too cool for comfort but no longer dangerously cold. The temperature tended to sting the parts of his body that weren’t actively participating in the workout, but it was a welcome relief for his arms and legs. His fingers, shrunk at first by the cold, soon became flushed with exertion, and it wasn’t long before a thin sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead. 

Sherlock wasn’t much for running, in all honesty, but it was an effective way to keep himself in shape when all other courses either failed or were unappealing. He had not fenced in years, and his only sparring partner in the boxing ring was Stanley, whom he hadn’t spoken to since he ended things last week. But Sherlock still needed to keep his body as sharp as his mind, and he would be of no use to anyone if he was anything less than at peak physical shape.

But that wasn’t truly possible anymore, not at his age. His peak had been twenty years ago, back when he still had youth on his side and had been able to easily rebound from days spent subsisting on nicotine patches and caffeine; back when his hand had been whole and his health was not yet blemished by a year and a half spent on the run.

Sherlock slowed to a jog, and then to a walk. He was three kilometers into his normal routine; almost to the end of his route. But his hand had been acting up all morning, and the exercise seemed only to have aggravated it. What had been a mild ache at the beginning of his run was now a moderate burn, and movement made the pain worse. 

More than that, this run was unsatisfactory at best, and Sherlock was irritated. Usually exercise was an effective way of clearing his mind, but today his mind hadn’t gone to white noise around kilometer one like it normally did. His thoughts had kept churning, and he couldn’t bring them to a standstill. 

He was still having the unsettling dreams about Victor at night, and when sleep was elusive he was finding it difficult to focus on anything other than what he had done with Stanley. It was gut-wrenching, and all of his other forms of distraction had failed. And so, it seemed, had this one.

The path Sherlock was walking curved to the left, and he found himself on a small bridge that stretched across a pond. This part of the running path was secluded, hidden by trees and their green-tinged branches. The leaves were just beginning to grow; in another few weeks, this part of the path would be covered by a canopy of green. 

Dawn was beginning to break, and the world looked as though it was being viewed through a blue-grey filter. By the time Sherlock made it back to Baker Street it would be well after sunrise, and everything would be clear and golden. 

Things looked better with the dawn, Victor always said. However dire or heart-wrenching the night before had been, there was always a dawn that followed. A new day; a new start. But here it was dawn, and the impending sunrise had done nothing to ease the pain that twisted Sherlock’s gut. It was another day, yes, but that meant another day being torn between the man he felt he couldn’t love and the one he could no longer have, and it made him ill. 

Sherlock paused on the other side of the small bridge. He leaned his weight on the railing and looked out on the still water. The surface of the pond was silver in the pre-dawn light, and its surface looked like polished glass. The world was silent; not even a breeze rustled the branches of the trees. 

He turned around and leaned back against the railing, resting his elbows on it and looking across to the other side of the pond. He wondered if this was what it was like when the serial killer abducted his victims. Were they alone like this, in the hour before morning, when someone stopped to speak to them? Maybe he asked them for directions, or offered them a drink from his bottle of water--water that was laced with Rohypnol, though they wouldn’t realise that until it was too late, if they even realised it at all.

Sherlock shook his head and glanced back at the path. It was only then that he noticed a dog sitting there, staring at him, his ears flat and his tail curled protectively around himself. His fur was dirty but not matted, and though he looked wary, he also hadn’t bolted. He was used to being around people, then, and hadn’t been on his own for very long. 

For a brief moment--less than a second--Sherlock contemplated continuing on his run. But Stanley would skin him alive if he knew Sherlock had even thought about leaving the dog, and if he was here, he already would have approached the animal. 

Sighing, Sherlock sank into a crouch and held out his hand. The dog didn’t need telling twice, and he was at Sherlock’s side in an instant.

“You’re too trusting,” Sherlock muttered to the animal. “Come on, sit.”

He sat down on the ground next to the dog and felt his neck, searching for a collar. He expected to find nothing and indeed came up empty-handed. The dog licked his hand, and then his face. Sherlock winced and pushed him away, but kept a hand on the animal’s back. He scratched lightly, and the dog calmed down.

“You get attached quickly, don’t you?” Sherlock shook his head at the dog's friendliness. “Typical. You care too much, and look where it got you. No collar, but there’s an impression of one and you’re obviously not used to this type of life. You’re not lost, then; you were abandoned, weren’t you? Probably. You loved them, and they left. You took a chance. It would have been better not to take that chance at all, and you’re not going to make that same mistake again.”

The dog settled down next to him and put his head on Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock moved his hand to the animal’s head and continued scratching. 

“You shouldn’t, at least,” he said quietly. “But you just can’t help yourself, can you? Fool.”

The dog closed his eyes and sighed, his wet nose touching Sherlock’s bare knee. 

“And now I’m sitting here at six in the morning trying to deduce a dog,” Sherlock muttered to himself. “Christ.”

He fished his mobile out of his pocket and dialed Mycroft’s number.

“Yes, I’m fully aware of how early it is,” he said when his brother answered. “Use your surveillance to find my current position. I’ve got a stray dog here. You need to send someone to pick him up. See that he’s cared for.”

Sherlock rang off and got to his feet. The dog sat up, bewildered, but Sherlock held out his hand. 

“Stay,” he ordered briskly, and the animal stilled. “Someone will be here for you shortly. I can’t stay, I’ve got - oh, why the hell am I telling you this, anyway?”

He drew a breath. “I’ve got a chance to take. You understand.”

Sherlock turned and broke into a run. The dog didn’t follow.

\----

Stanley was tending to his plants.

There was a small garden around the back of his house that Stanley never really got use out of due to his work hours. It sprouted weeds more often than actual plants, and the last time Sherlock had seen it get any actual use was immediately after the divorce.

But Stanley was out there now, clad in jeans and a worn grey t-shirt. The day had warmed considerably since dawn, as was typical of London in the springtime. 

Stanley didn’t hear Sherlock approach. He must have been wrapped up entirely in his work, because even though Sherlock took great pains to make his footsteps audible across the grass, Stanley didn’t notice his presence until Sherlock was almost upon him. 

“ _Shit_ ,” he swore when Sherlock appeared at his elbow, and his hand slipped on the hand-held shears he was using on his plants. He was trimming back the growth of early spring, neglected up until now, and a pile of plant detritus at his knees spoke to the amount of pruning that had gone on before Sherlock arrived. Stanley rose to his feet, nursing a bloody thumb. “Sherlock.”

“Stanley.”

They stared at one another for a full minute, and the garden was suddenly quiet. The silence was almost oppressive, and Sherlock felt distinctly uncomfortable.

_ Good _ , John would say. _Relationships are bloody hard work, mate. They should make you feel uncomfortable._

“I rather thought that we might chat,” Sherlock said stiffly. Stanley stared at him blankly for a moment.

“What about?” he asked flatly. 

Sherlock drew a breath. “What I said last week –”

Stanley  held up a hand.

“It’s fine,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to explain yourself further. I get what you were trying to say.”

“But –”

“No,” Stanley said sharply, and now his eyes flashed steel. “Look, I get it, Sherlock, all right? I don’t need you to rub in the fact that I’m not – I’m not the man you want. I know that. I’ve always known that. I could do without rehashing it, okay?”

“Stanley –” 

“I gave you every out, you know,” Stanley broke in, interrupting him. There was a slight tremor in his voice. “You kissed me, remember, that first time. And after that, I didn’t push. I gave you _every_ out. I know what he meant to you, Sherlock. Did you really think I was unaware of the fact that his death almost killed you, too?”

“Stanley –”

“I’m not trying to be him, or replace him. I know you’ve had your great love, and that this isn’t it.” Stanley pushed a hand through his hair, his voice rising uncharacteristically with his frustration.  

“I didn’t say that,” Sherlock said quietly, a bitter taste in the back of his mouth at the thought of the things he had said to Stanley. “You’re not anything less than what he was. You are brilliant, and you’re clever, and you mean – you mean a great deal to me. I want to care for you both. I – I don’t know how, or if I can, but I want to try.”

“And what happens to me if you decide you can’t do it?” Stanley asked quietly. “Better yet, how are you going to tell if you can do it or not? Are you going to give yourself a deadline? Hard data? ‘If I don’t think about Victor for x-amount of time while I’m with Stanley, then the experiment is a success.’ Is that what it’s going to be like?”

“You aren’t an experiment,” Sherlock said, and he couldn’t quite keep the hurt from his voice.

“And I’m not going to compete with a dead man,” Stanley snapped.

“I’m not asking you to. That’s not how it’s going to be. It’s just – look, when you left last week, I thought it was the right thing to do. I was wrong. This past week has been nothing short of dreadful,” Sherlock said, his voice hoarse. “I may miss him always, Stanley, but I _want_ you. I need you. And you’re not him, but that’s good. Don’t you see? I don’t want someone who isn’t _you_.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, and added, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it. So would you – please, Stanley, I _need you_.”

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard, forcing back the babble of words that threatened to spill forth, words that would have been nothing more than an incoherent mantra.

_ I need you _ .

Stanley finally set down his shears and approached Sherlock. His eyes were bloodshot and bruises sat underneath them, indicating that his night had been just as sleepless. He reached out and brought two fingers to rest against the hollow of Sherlock’s throat; Sherlock swallowed. Stanley’s aftershave was sharp, earthy, and Sherlock went light-headed at the smell of him. 

“I won’t know unless I try,” Sherlock said quietly. “Stanley, please, let me have this chance. It’s all I ask.”

Stanley dropped his hand, and Sherlock bit back a whimper at the loss of contact.

“Sherlock, I was suspended this morning,” he said abruptly.

“What?” Sherlock stared at him, his pleas almost forgotten. 

Stanley braced his hands on his hips and blew out a harsh breath between his teeth. “Didn’t you wonder why I was home in the middle of the afternoon?”

“I –” In truth, Sherlock had been so distracted by all that he needed to say to Stanley that it hadn’t occurred to him that finding Stanley at home was an unusual occurrence. “You were suspended? _Why_?”

Stanley waved a hand vaguely through the air and turned away. He walked over to a nearby stump of a tree and perched on it, staring sightlessly at his small garden. 

“It turns out that they want to close the case,” he said dully. “They want to name Dawlins as the murderer, and they want to close the case.”

“That _was_ your idea,” Sherlock pointed out. Stanley shook his head.

“No. I wanted to use that as a tactic to flush the real killer out. I didn’t – I didn’t intend for us to _actually_ name him the killer. That’s ludicrous. He has alibis, for God’s sake.”

Realisation sank in. “But the higher-ups want you to focus on poking holes in those alibis, and they hope they can cast enough reasonable doubt on them that the public believes he’s the killer.”

Stanley sighed. “I told you they wanted this case closed as soon as possible. Turns out… they’ll go through any means to do it.”

“What did you do?”

“Among other things, I gave the Chief a short list of things he could shove up his arse. He didn’t really appreciate that,” Stanley said flatly. “So I was suspended. Donovan’s been put in charge of the case and my team for the time being.”

“How long is the suspension?”

Stanley’s face darkened. “Indefinite. With pay, thank God, but the suspension has no end date. I don’t –”

He broke off, and swallowed visibly. “I don’t know what to do. The work – the work was everything. It’s all I had. You understand.”

Sherlock offered him a hand. Stanley looked at it warily for a moment, and then he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. 

“Once, not all that long ago, yes,” Sherlock said quietly. “But it’s not everything. Not anymore. Not while I have you.”

He cupped Stanley’s face with his mangled hand. “And you have _me_.”

Stanley pulled Sherlock’s hand from his face, but he didn’t let it go. “For how long?”

Sherlock swallowed. 

“For as long as I’m able,” he said finally, honestly. It was the best he could offer.

Something behind Stanley’s gaze softened, and he tilted his head. Sherlock met him halfway for the kiss, which was soft and dry.

“All right,” Stanley said when they pulled apart. “I’ll take that. Yes, we can try.”

\----

Sherlock and Stanley fell into a routine without entirely thinking about it.

They still shared their weekly lunches even though Stanley was no longer at the Yard, and they fit in their sparring sessions at a local gym where time allowed. But it had become an unspoken, mutual agreement between them that they also now spent as many nights together as was possible. They stayed at Stanley’s home more frequently, but it was rare that they now went a night without seeing one another. Weekends were usually spent at Baker Street so that Sherlock could tend to his own work--and, according to Stanley, because Sherlock’s bed was a good deal larger than his own.

They were here in Baker Street this Friday night. Stanley came over looking shattered—he hadn’t been sleeping well lately—and hadn’t been able to muster the energy nor the brainpower to do much more than recline on the sofa with Sherlock, dozing lightly against his shoulder while Sherlock read. Sherlock had finally persuaded him into bed, knowing that if Stanley fell asleep on the sofa he would be dead to the world for hours and there was no way Sherlock would have been able to move him.

Stanley stretched out on the bed with a crossword, lying on his front. He supported himself on his elbows and tapped a pen against his teeth in concentration. Sherlock stretched out on his back beside him, a hand behind his head while the other held open a book that was propped up on his chest.

“Careful, old man,” Stanley said lightly, “or someone might think you actually need glasses.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. True, he was holding the book open only a few centimeters away from his face, and even then needed squint to make out the words, but the blurred gaze was likely just a product of his exhaustion.

“Says the man who’s been fighting to stay awake since he came over tonight,” he retorted. Stanley had spent the last half hour staring at the puzzle blankly without making any real progress on it.

“S’pose I can’t really argue with you there. I guess we’re both getting old.” Stanley set aside the crossword and rolled closer to Sherlock, who held out his arm so that Stanley could settle against his side. Stanley cushioned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and draped an arm across his stomach. He peered at the book for a moment before turning his face into Sherlock’s chest and closing his eyes.

“S’in French,” he said around a yawn. Sherlock nodded, Stanley’s hair brushing against his chin.

“I’m out of practice,” he explained.

“Thought you just knew these things.” Stanley was murmuring now, sleeping tugging insistently at him. Sherlock gave a soft chuckle.

“I’m a genius, Stanley, not a magician,” he said, amused. “I know how to utilize the information, and I can store great deals of it in my mind, but it doesn’t simply appear out of thin air. I must study all kinds of disciplines, and constantly. Otherwise my brain will atrophy and become useless, as any muscle does when one allows it to fall out of use.”

“S’amazing.”

Sherlock snorted.

“You’re so tired, I believe that you’d find drying paint to be exciting. Go to sleep, Stanley.”

“No, m’fine.”

And Sherlock, for some reason, chose to believe him, and returned to his book. Within ten minutes, Stanley’s breathing had evened out and he was a dead weight on Sherlock’s arm and shoulder.

“Bugger,” Sherlock muttered to himself, though it was without any real heat. He set aside his book and moved Stanley the bare amount necessary so that he could reach the nearby lamp and shut it off. Stanley roused anyway, but only slightly, and he’d settled on his side by the time Sherlock shucked his shirt and shimmied under the blankets to join him. Clad only in his pajama bottoms, he slid an arm around Stanley’s waist and pulled him close, sliding their legs together and breathing in the warm spice of Stanley’s skin.

He fell asleep not long after, and woke with Stanley’s head on his shoulder. He had one arm thrown across Sherlock’s chest and one leg draped over Sherlock’s left one. Sherlock’s arm was pinned between their bodies, and for a moment he contemplated freeing it. But that would undoubtedly involve rousing Stanley again, and so Sherlock remained where he was.

They were still tangled around one another when morning finally dawned, and remained that way even after the prospect of further sleep vanished entirely.

\----

Sherlock had the first of three pre-surgery consultations near the end of March. The first one was mostly concerned with taking measurements of his hands and comparing his fingers now with photographs of his hands from twenty years ago, back when they both had been whole. 

“It’s to make sure that the prosthesis looks like a natural part of your hand,” Branson told him. Sherlock didn’t give a rat’s arse whether or not people could recognise that he had been outfitted with a prosthetic device, but didn’t bother expending the energy to say that to the doctor. It wouldn’t matter anyway.  

“Right, I’ll see you back again in three days for some more blood work, and your final appointment will be the day before the planned surgery,” Branson said when the appointment concluded. “I bet you’re looking forward to this, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock gave a non-committal grunt and a thin smile before shaking the doctor’s hand and departing. He resented doctors and hated hospitals. He just wanted the whole damn thing to be over with.

He was scheduled to meet Stanley for dinner within the hour, but a text from Donovan had him pushing back their meal so that he could make a quick detour. 

“The man you shot at McCormack Industries – Dawlins?” Donovan said when he appeared in her office. “We’ve pulled all of his records. You said you wanted them as soon as we had them.”

She indicated a thick file sitting on the end of her desk.

“It took your team long enough,” Sherlock griped, and Donovan shot him a cold look.

“Not by choice, believe me,” she snapped. “The higher-ups don’t believe this case is pressing enough for us to be devoting our whole attention to it.”

Sherlock stared at her.

“You’re joking,” he said, and she pursed her lips.

“No,” she said darkly. “We’ve got three other cases that they’ve deemed more important at the moment. We may have a serial killer on our hands, but in their eyes he’s the slowest serial killer on the planet and can be dealt with later. Besides, he’s –”

“ – he’s not murdering anyone of any particular importance,” Sherlock filled in. “No one of any particular worth to society, at least.”

Donovan inclined her head. “We haven’t made any notable progress on this case because of it.”

“How recently did they decide this?”

“A few days ago,” she said quietly. 

“I thought they wanted this case closed.”

“They do,” Donovan said with a nod. “But only if we name Dawlins as the killer, and I’m not ready to do that yet. They want it over quickly. So either I give them Dawlins as the killer –”

“ – or they’re going to keep you working on other cases, because this one isn’t important to them – and they want to keep it out of the headlines,” Sherlock finished for her.

Donovan nodded. “So do me a favour –”

“I won’t breathe a word of this to Hopkins,” Sherlock said. 

“I just think – it’ll probably do him more harm than good. He’s already so invested in this case…” she trailed off. “How’s he holding up?”

“He keeps busy.” Sherlock shrugged. “He’s far from pleased with the situation, but I can’t say that I’m particularly disheartened by it. He needed to get away from this.”

Donovan nodded. “I’m inclined to agree. Just – do us a favour, hey? Watch out for him.”

“I intend to.” Sherlock picked up the file folder and gave her a nod. “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

 

Stanley was lounging in an armchair, his feet propped up on a table and a book balanced on his lap. He looked up when Sherlock entered the house and lifted two fingers in greeting before going back to his reading. A half-empty glass of dark liquid was sitting on the table by his elbow, along with an ashtray and the still-smoldering remains of a cigarette. He had the radio on, and for once Sherlock recognised the tune.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said. He peeled off his coat and hung it up. “Not your usual choice of music.”

He leaned over Stanley and gave him a gentle kiss as the music swelled. “ _ Va, pensiero, sull'ali dorate _ . It means –”

“ _Fly, thought, on wings of gold,_ ” Stanley interrupted, and Sherlock paused. He gave a wry twist of his lips and added, “Verdi. ‘The Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves.’ From the opera _Nabucco_. See, I do know what you’re talking about sometimes.”

He lifted his glass, eyeing the contents for some moments as they caught the light of the setting sun. The drink glowed amber, warm and honey-gold. Stanley took a long swallow that drained half the glass, and then pulled a face at the bitter taste.

“Mum used to play it all the time. It’s her favourite opera,” Stanley went on, setting his glass aside. “Hello.”

He craned his neck, meeting Sherlock halfway for another kiss, and then allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. 

“What’s for dinner?”

“Well,” Stanley said, “I was thinking I might try _Suki_. You mentioned once that one trip to Thailand that you took a few years ago, and how you admired the cuisine.”

“Which means that we’ll be having pasta.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Stanley said with a sigh. “ _That_ , at least, is something that I don’t burn. Well, usually.”

“It’s practically a foolproof meal,” Sherlock agreed with a teasing smile.

“ _Practically_ being the operational word there.” Stanley poured them both a drink and handed Sherlock his. “And talking of _operational_ , when were you going to tell me about your surgery?”

Sherlock suppressed a sigh. “It didn’t seem relevant to bring up.”

“So you were just going to disappear for a couple of days and return with two new fingers and expect me not to wonder what the hell happened?”

Sherlock sighed. “I just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. No fuss.”

“You’re having half your hand replaced and you don’t think it’s a big deal?”

Sherlock scowled at him, and Stanley held up his hands. 

“Right, sorry. Will you at least tell me when this is supposed to happen?”

“Next week,” Sherlock said, and then filled Stanley in on the rest of the details as briefly and succinctly as possible. “How did you find out about it, anyway?”

“Wayward text from your brother’s PA. She messaged me instead of you, wanting to know when you’d need a ride to the hospital on that day.”

Sherlock grunted. “There was probably nothing ‘wayward’ about it. She wanted you to know.”

“Probably,” Stanley agreed with a slight shrug.

“What did you say in response?”

“Told her to bugger off. You’d find your own way to the hospital, even if you had to walk. You don’t need Mycroft’s help.”

Sherlock grinned.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” he said, and Stanley rolled his eyes.

“Careful, there, old man,” he said, “because you’re probably not going to like this.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Stanley said firmly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to insist on driving you to the hospital. But I want to be there after. Okay? I want to bring you home.”

“Stanley –”

“Remember what you said about how you were going to try?” Stanley broke in, raising an eyebrow at him. Sherlock paused.

“Compromise?” he ventured, and Stanley nodded.

“Compromise,” he said. 

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. He supposed it would be helpful to have Stanley around, especially if his recovery wasn’t smooth. And it would save him the trouble of riding in a London cab—driverless or otherwise—immediately after having part of his hand replaced.

“All right,” he said. “You can bring me home. But no – _hovering_.”

Stanley held up a hand. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said earnestly, and Sherlock snorted. 

“Yes, you would,” he said, “but I trust you.”

Stanley waved away the compliment and returned to fixing the meal.

They ate in silence once dinner was completed. Sherlock caught up with comments on his blog while Stanley opened the newspaper for the first time that day, and they spent a companionable half an hour in each other’s company. Eventually, the meal was finished, and Stanley cleared the dishes while Sherlock fixed them both another drink.

“You were late tonight,” Stanley said when they settled at the table again.

“I was,” Sherlock said, infusing a light warning into his tone. _Don’t press for more_.

“It’s because of the case.”

“Don’t, Stanley.”

“Have they found something new?” Stanley had schooled his expression into something resembling neutral, but his jaw was tight and his eyes were stone. 

“I can’t say.”

“Are they still trying to close it?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Same difference,” Sherlock said tightly. “You are no longer on the case, Stanley. No one will share details of it with you. It’s against procedure and the law.”

Stanley looked incredulous.

“When have you ever had use for laws or procedures?” he asked scathingly. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I’ve spent half of the past fifteen years running around after _you_ and putting out fires because you couldn’t be arsed to followed any sort of policy or procedure that didn’t suit you! And now you dare throw that back in _my_ face -”

“Yes, I do dare!” Sherlock snapped. “I have no intention of sharing any details of the case with you, Stanley, so don’t bother asking again.”

“Sherlock, for the love of God, just let me know what’s going on!” Stanley was quickly growing frustrated, and his voice rose with his irritation. “Has someone else been kidnapped?”

“I can’t say.”

“Damn it, Sherlock!” Stanley slammed his hand down flat on the table, and the resulting _crack_ caused them both to jump. “I can help!”

“Maybe,” Sherlock conceded, and Stanley looked surprised at the easy admission. “Probably.”

“I don’t understand.” Stanley’s voice had lost much of its volume, but none of its hard edge. “If you would just tell me _something_ -”

“No.”

“Sherlock -”

“God damn it, Stanley, _no_.”

“Why the bloody hell not?”

“Because you mean more to me than the damn case!”

For a while, there was nothing but silence.

“What?” Stanley said finally. Sherlock sighed.

“You mean more to me than the case,” he said, softer now. “You were put on suspension for a reason, Stanley. It was eating away at you. You haven't been eating, you smoke now more than you ever did, you rarely sleep... and when you _do_ sleep, all you have are nightmares. No, I won't tell you anything about this case, because you need to stop living it.”

Stanley stared at him for several long seconds, not speaking, barely moving, his jaw tight.

“I won’t stand for this,” he said stiffly. 

“You don’t have a choice,” Sherlock told him.

“Sherlock, I can’t think of a single thing more important than this case. He is _out there_ –“

“I know.”

“ – and you don’t fucking care, do you?” Stanley’s words shook with his rage. “He could be hunting someone down _right now_.”

“And even if you were at the office there’s not a thing you could do about that,” Sherlock said quietly, as calmly as he could manage. 

“You don’t actually know that. Maybe we would have made some headway by now!”

“More headway in a few days than we have in the past six months? I don’t think so, Stanley.”

Stanley closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I think it’d be best if you left right now,” he said finally. Sherlock gave a stiff nod.

“There are some things you can’t fix,” he said, reaching for his coat. “The sooner you accept that, the better. Good night, Stanley.”

He left without waiting for a response. He doubted Stanley would give one, anyway.

\-----

John squinted at the screen.

“Bring your hand closer,” he ordered. “Can’t see a bloody thing from there, mate.”

Sherlock sighed, got up from the table, and walked over to the vid screen. He held his left hand so that it was only a few inches from the monitor.

“Better?” he asked snidely. John adjusted his glasses and peered at the hand. 

“Mm,” he hummed. “And what were your latest x-rays, again?”

Sherlock sighed and fetched them from the table. He held them up for John to examine. 

“And what’ve they got you on prior to the surgery?”

Sherlock shrugged. “The same painkillers I told you about the last time.”

“They’ve also got you fasting.”

Sherlock nodded. “Nothing for the next twelve hours.”

“Water?”

He shook his head. John grunted.

“Standard procedure,” he said, leaning back in his chair and taking off his glasses. “Now, when you go in tomorrow, don’t forget to tell them that you’re allergic to –“

“I _know_ , John.”

John rolled his eyes and held up his hands. “Sorry, sorry. Just trying to avoid you going into anaphylaxis on the operating table. Excuse me for looking out for you.”

Sherlock rubbed his forehead and sat down again. He was beginning to get a headache, and really wished that this call would end. 

“I can look after myself, thanks,” he said irritably. John raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, because you’re doing a stellar job of it so far. What the hell’s the matter with you? The kitchen’s clean as a whistle, and you haven’t been this irritable in months.”

“I haven’t had any experiments to run recently.”

“You _always_ have experiments to run,” John retorted. He sighed. “What’ve you done now, Sherlock?”

Sherlock scowled. 

“It wasn’t me this time,” he said irritably. “Stanley’s being a fool.”

John lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s _Stanley_ now, is it?”

“He finds it strange that I continually call him by his surname even though we’re sleeping together.”

John blinked at him for a moment.

“Right,” he announced, and then looked at something off-screen. “Pay up, Greg.”

There was an audible sigh.

“You couldn’t have waited a couple of months?” Greg asked in mock exasperation, appearing next to John at the table.

“There were extenuating circumstances,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that he was almost murdered by the Regent’s Park Killer’s accomplice. You two were _betting_ on this?”

John snorted.

“Sherlock, we’ve had a bet going for years now. Just had to keep pushing it back. You’re a bit late to the party, so let’s focus on the fact that you showed up at all. Good for you, mate.”

“What he means is, we’re happy for you,” Greg broke in, sounding amused. “Do me a favour, though, son. Make it a winter wedding, yeah? Got some good money riding on that one.”

There was an audible _thwack_ as John thumped him on the shoulder.

“In all seriousness,” Greg continued amid his chuckles, “just don’t wait another five years, yeah? Stanley is a good man. You hold on to him.”

“You two are unbelievable,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Maybe, but we _are_ right.”

“ _That_ remains to be seen.”

“Not to change the subject,” John said, “but what’s this about the Regent’s Park Killer? And why’s Stanley the one being a fool?”

Sherlock outlined the events leading up to their first night together, and filled them in also on Stanley’s suspension – and how he was handling it. 

“He’s angry with me. Again,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “And he’s letting this case get to him, even though he’s no longer working it. I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John said with a soft laugh. “You’ve got it bad, mate.”

Sherlock scowled. “I do not.”

“You do,” Greg said.

“It’s the nature of being involved with an officer,” John said. “You’re gonna worry your arse off about them. Especially when Stanley pulls the same stupid shit you used to. Tracking down a potential killer single-handedly? Jesus. Let’s face it, Sherlock, you’ve mellowed in your old age. He hasn’t yet.”

“Try not to let it consume you. Stanley does have a decent head on his shoulders, for the most part,” Greg put in.

“Get him shot in the hip instead next time,” John suggested.

“Hey!”

“What?” John asked, mock defensively. “It worked out well for me, didn’t it? Got you to retire _and_ move away from that bloody city. No more risking your neck on a day-to-day basis.”

Greg grumbled something about how living with John was a day-to-day hazard and the two of them bickered for a while as Sherlock listened.

“Look, fascinating as this all is,” Sherlock broke in finally, “I’m going to hang up on you two.”

“Right, right, sorry,” John said hastily. “Listen, just hang in there, all right? No one out there can guarantee  Stanley’s safety or his personal happiness. But he’s also a careful guy. All right? Just… be there for him when you can.”

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, and John dropped the subject.

“Keep us updated about your surgery. Good luck tomorrow.”

“And bring him to dinner sometime,” Greg chimed in.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but gave his expected goodbyes before ringing off.


	15. Chapter 15

The morning of the surgery dawned like every other day in March – clear, cool, and calm. 

Sherlock packed an overnight bag and caught a cab to the hospital shortly after sunrise. He had to take a driverless one, as the regular cabs didn’t actually start running until around mid-morning. That already set his teeth on edge, and he was irritable upon arrival at the hospital. 

The rest of his morning was grey and lifeless. He was ushered into a room, given a hospital gown to change into, and hooked up to a drip. Nurses came by periodically with paperwork or to do blood work, but they were few and far between. Sherlock was virtually chained to his bed in a windowless room, and everywhere he looked he saw only white or grey. It was dull and maddening, and he found himself almost wishing for the surgery.

Eventually, he was taken to the operating theatre, and the last thing he remembered was an anesthesiologist saying, “Now, we’re going to hook you up to…”

Sherlock had been to hospital multiple times in the past, and he had needed to be put under anesthesia at least five times for various reasons. Each time, he swore that it would be different; that he would remember, and that he would resist the pull of the medication.

It never happened. Invariably, he always woke in recovery with very little memory of what had transpired, and though he thought he was lucid immediately following waking up, it always turned out later that he was groggy and incoherent. 

Once, after a surgery to piece his shattered right arm back together, he’d woken to Victor’s reassuring smile and proceeded to spend the next hour flirting shamelessly with him, not realising that at that point they had been together for three years already. He’d woken later feeling vaguely irritated, and didn’t realise immediately that it’d been because he was upset that he hadn’t managed to get Victor’s number.

“I’m flattered, actually,” Victor had said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead and waving away his embarrassed apologies. “It’s good to know you still find me worth pursuing after all this time.”

That was almost thirty years ago, Sherlock realised as he stared at the ceiling in the darkened recovery room. When did that happen?

He was groggy, and the room spun if he tried to move his head, but otherwise this was the most lucid he’d been after a surgery. He could feel his hands resting on his stomach, and through the fabric of his shirt he could tell that the left one was heavily bandaged. He wanted to take a look at it, and was terrified of what he’d find. 

Sherlock wasn’t entirely aware of the passage of time for a while after that. What felt like an hour was actually ten minutes, according to the clock on the wall; what felt like a moment was really half an hour. He woke at odd intervals to his vitals being taken or blood being drawn, and it seemed as though someone was always purposely waking him in order to give him water or get him on his feet to shuffle unsteadily around the room.

He really wished they would all leave him alone. 

Sherlock woke again near five in the evening, almost four hours after the conclusion of the surgery. The room was quiet and empty; for once, he hadn’t woken because someone else was there. He saw the late-afternoon sun through the curtains, golden, and fading, and the room was thrown into shadows. 

He pushed a button on the railing of his bed and brought himself into a sitting position. He was light-headed and dry-mouthed, but he wasn’t overcome with a wave of dizziness when he lifted his head off the pillow and considered that to be a small success.

Sherlock lifted his left hand and brought it into view. He blinked several times to focus on it properly. A thick layer of bandages was wrapped around the hand, making it appear vaguely as though it had been swaddled in a white mitten. He touched the bandages and, when he felt nothing, started to pick at the wrapping.

“Are you supposed to be up, old man?”

Sherlock looked up, momentarily distracted from the bandages covering his hand. Stanley was standing in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze fond. Sherlock swallowed, a swell of gratitude warming him from the inside out and creating a lump in his throat. He hadn’t expected – he didn’t think Stanley would come.

“Drugs aren’t as effective on me, given my history,” Sherlock said. His tongue felt too large for his mouth and he had to speak slowly in order to make sure the words were clear, but at least the sentence was coherent. 

“You’re telling me. The doctors said that you’d be out for at least another couple of hours.” Stanley came over to the side of his bed and pressed a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, easing him back against the mattress. 

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Sherlock said finally. It took him an age to find the words. He felt as though his mind was swimming through heavy seas, and it was all he could do to stay afloat and conscious.

“I wasn’t sure I’d come, either,” Stanley admitted. “Not until this morning.  What’re you doing?”

Sherlock was carefully undoing the bandages that covered his left hand, removing them strip by strip in methodical fashion. Clouded as his mind was by the fading anesthesia and dim throb of pain, it took all of his concentration just to complete this one simple task.

Stanley didn’t try to physically stop him, though he did say, “Those aren’t supposed to come off right away, Sherlock.”

“Precaution,” Sherlock muttered. His hands were shaking, especially as he neared his goal, and he gave a startled gasp as he jostled his left hand. The fingers that shouldn’t be there--the fingers that had been gone for so long--moved, and he felt the sensation shoot down his arm. 

“Here,” Stanley said quietly. He wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s left forearm, holding it steady. “Better?”

Sherlock nodded mutely. He took a slow, bracing breath and peeled away the last of the bandages, finally freeing his fingers. 

The new fingers were indistinguishable from his hand. Sherlock gaped at them for some moments, staring at how perfectly they blended in with his flesh; how identical they appeared compared to the fingers he had lost. If he hadn’t known precisely where his hand ended and the prosthesis began, he never would have been able to say that his hand was anything less than organic. 

“Look at that,” Stanley murmured. 

Sherlock flexed his new fingers slowly, experimentally, and he was able to do so without great pain only because of the heavy medication he was still on. His entire hand responded to the command, and he curled all five fingers into a loose fist. He then opened it slowly, watching in amazement as his final two fingers moved just as smoothly as the other three. 

“You should probably put the bandages back on,” Stanley said gently.

“Not yet,” Sherlock said, and he lifted his hand to Stanley’s face. 

Stanley went very still as Sherlock cupped the side of his face with his left hand. He dragged his fingers over Stanley’s smooth cheek and jaw; over the tiny patch of stubble just under his ear that he’d missed whilst shaving this morning. He trailed his fingers over Stanley’s – _cracked, dry_ – lips and down his neck, and then over his brow and along the shell of his left ear. He smoothed his hand over Stanley’s head, threading the dark hair between his fingers. He felt – 

– He _felt_. 

Stanley reached out and swiped the heel of his hand over Sherlock’s cheeks, and Sherlock was surprised to realise that they were wet. Stanley’s own eyes were over-bright, and he leaned down to press his lips to Sherlock’s forehead.

“I think it’s time you pulled that violin out of storage,” he whispered, and Sherlock gave a wet chuckle. “You okay?”

Sherlock gave a slow nod. Stanley squeezed next to Sherlock on the bed, fitting himself between Sherlock’s body and the low railing. He had always been slender, but he had dropped enough weight since the beginning of the case that he could be considered thin. He fit easily on the bed next to Sherlock, and when he leaned back they were pressed together from shoulders to hips to thighs. Sherlock let his left hand come to rest on Stanley’s leg, and Stanley covered it with his own.

“I’m sorry,” Stanley whispered, “for all that I said.”

“You had a point.” Sherlock shifted, trying to get comfortable against the flat pillow. “I don’t care about the case. I only care about you.”

“Yes, well, I knew that about you going in, didn’t I?” Stanley ran his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s prosthesis, and he shivered at the gentle touch. “I was still a prick to you that night.”

“S’pose you were, a bit.” Sherlock attempted a smile, and could tell even through the haze of medication that it wasn’t quite controlled. “It’s all right.”

Stanley lifted Sherlock’s hand to his face, brushing his lips over the back of Sherlock’s knuckles, and then he placed a gentle kiss on the prosthesis. Sherlock felt the warmth of his mouth and the scrape of his dry lips, and it was all he could do to keep from weeping. 

Damn this medication.

“Sherlock.” Stanley had noticed, and his voice was concerned. He half-turned on the bed so that he could wrap an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and draw him close. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock’s head dropped onto Stanley’s shoulder. It felt like a lead weight on his neck, and he couldn’t be bothered to lift it again. “Jus’ – glad you came.”

He swallowed, and then said quietly, thickly, “Wanted… wanted you to be the first thing I touched.”

The touch of Stanley’s lips to his forehead was the last thing Sherlock registered before sleep finally pulled him under. 

\----

Sherlock had known, theoretically, that the week following the surgery might be difficult. 

He was wholly unprepared, though, when that _might_ turned into a certainty.

He weathered his hospital stay with relative ease and made the transition back to Baker Street without much difficulty. He wasn’t to use his left hand for at least seven days, and during that time he wasn’t allowed to do anything other than rest and eat. He especially wasn’t allowed to work on any cases. Stanley ensured that much, at least - he had phoned Donovan ahead of time and told her that under no circumstances was she to contact Sherlock for one week. Alice took care of the rest. She confiscated Sherlock’s science equipment and called on Mycroft to disable all the vid screens and the Internet in 221B. 

“You are going to read,” she said sternly, “if you do anything. Otherwise, it’s sleeping and eating for you, young man.”

“Alice, I’m ten years older than you,” Sherlock muttered.

“No talking!”

Sherlock spent most of the first day on the sofa, drifting in and out of sleep. He only had one bout of nausea, and considered the day a success.

He should have known that it would only get worse before it could get truly better. He woke up on the second day with a fever, and there was a dull throbbing in his hand. It had intensified by the afternoon to a ferocious ache, and the painkillers he took didn’t make much of an impact. He was too warm, too sweaty, and every time he tried to get up from his bed the room spun dangerously. 

Sherlock managed only toast and water over the next couple of days, and his hand felt like it was constantly on fire. He had almost resolved to call John by the time the fourth day dawned, but he couldn’t summon the strength to lift his mobile. And anyway, what could John have done? He would have called for the paramedics, and Sherlock would be taken to a hospital. 

If he never saw the inside of a hospital again, it would be too soon.

“Too damn bad, old man,” Stanley said on day five. He had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, his voice penetrating the fog around Sherlock’s mind. “Come on. You’re going back to hospital.”

“ _Hovering_ ,” Sherlock muttered indignantly, and winced as Stanley helped him into a sitting position. Everything ached.

“Alice called me. Otherwise I’d have left you alone. But you know it’s bad when you’ve got even her worried. Come on, up.”

Sherlock was put on a regular dose of immunosuppressants that night at the hospital, and after that things slowly started to turn around. His body accepted the prosthesis and nerve reconstruction, and within the next week he was able to start his physical therapy.

Though the physical therapy was only for his hand, he found that it left him drained and aching. It was also a daily occurrence, meaning that Sherlock spent about ten days out of commission before he started to slowly adapt to the grueling routine. Stanley was patient with him throughout. Now that his schedule was free, he spent nearly every evening at Baker Street--and most mornings, too. He made sure that Sherlock ate and tended to things around the flat as needed. He helped Sherlock with his painkillers and immunosuppressants, and after a grueling session of physical therapy, Stanley was a calming presence. He spent most evenings on the sofa with Sherlock’s head in his lap, watching mindless television or reading while Sherlock drifted in and out of drugged unconsciousness. 

By the time two weeks had passed since the surgery, Sherlock was mostly able to function on his own. His hand twinged now and again, but the nausea and the worst of the pain had passed. He could move his new fingers and feel with them, and though they weren’t yet up to full strength, they were close.

Stanley started spending more evenings at his own home again, and things returned to something resembling normal. Sherlock resumed his work on his papers, and he checked in occasionally with Donovan to see if anything new had developed with the case. There was nothing for her to report – they still hadn’t closed the case, and her team was being kept occupied with other crimes.

When he was feeling up to it, Sherlock made the ten-minute trip to Stanley’s home. Stanley, during his suspension, had taken on a number of projects in order to keep himself occupied. He had read through half the books on his bookcase, for starters, which was remarkable considering the fact that he had a bad habit of going into a bookshop on a regular basis and buying at least four books, even though he had ones waiting at home that hadn’t been read yet. He was finally making a dent in his reading list, and he was thoroughly enjoying it.

He had also taken up a number of small maintenance projects around the house. So far, he had built himself a new bookcase, a new table, and he had replaced the moulding around all the doorways and windows in his house.

“What do you think?” he asked one night as Sherlock stepped into the house. Sherlock eyed the work appreciatively.

“I’m thinking that I’ve got a house in the South Downs that could use your attention.”

Three weeks after the surgery, Sherlock was in Stanley’s bed, reading while Stanley finished washing up in the bathroom. He was absent-mindedly flexing his left hand. His fingers were a bit stiff, but they didn’t ache and they responded to his commands, which left him feeling nothing but light-hearted. 

He switched off the light when Stanley crawled into bed.

“Oi! I was gonna read for a bit.”

Sherlock pulled him in for a deep kiss. 

“Really?”

Stanley gave a soft groan. Sherlock shifted so that Stanley was on top of him and, after careful nudging, Stanley straddled his hips. 

“Sure about this?” Stanley whispered against his mouth. Sherlock pressed up against him. Stanley already was growing hard. 

“More than,” Sherlock murmured. He rested his left hand on Stanley’s thigh and squeezed with five fingers. It was all the encouragement Stanley needed.

Sherlock spent what felt like hours mapping Stanley’s body with his new fingers. Even after they’d both spent themselves--Sherlock inside Stanley; Stanley on Sherlock’s stomach--Sherlock continued to trail his fingers over the sweaty and cooling flesh. He traced Stanley’s spine and the small of his back; ran his fingers over the curve of Stanley’s arse and down his legs. He felt Stanley’s stomach and hips; brushed his new fingers over the dark hair on Stanley’s chest and traced the crease between his thighs and pelvis. And finally, when Stanley was quivering and flushed once again with desire, Sherlock grasped him with his left hand and used five nimble fingers to bring him off. 

“Are you sure - can I -?” Stanley gasped, reaching for him, but Sherlock intercepted his wandering hands.

“I’m fine,” he said quietly, kissing Stanley’s fingers before lying down next to him again. “I’m fine.”

And he was.

\----

The unsettling dreams still clawed at the back of Sherlock’s mind - not quite nightmares and still far from pleasant, they left him with unease in his stomach and a tightness in his chest whenever he woke from them. Most days, he could remember nothing but shadowy figures; he could feel nothing but the after-effects of a heart-pounding chase. But that was all he needed to remember \-- he knew what they had been about.

And then one night he was wrenched from sleep by yet another failed attempt to catch Victor, this one so vivid that he could still smell Victor’s cologne when he woke. He jerked out of sleep, chest heaving, with the bitter taste of bile and failure in the back of his mouth. Stanley was asleep beside him, curled up on his side, and it appeared as though Sherlock’s movements hadn’t even roused him.

Sherlock slid from the bed and walked unsteadily into the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his sweat-soaked face and fought back the urge to weep out of frustration. He slid to the floor, his back against the closed door, and buried his face in his hands. He had long thought that the worst thing that could happen on this Earth was for Victor to die--and he had. It was unthinkable, unfathomable, and still it happened. There was no reason there, no logic--only a deep and unending pain.

But this was almost just as cruel. Victor was dead, and there was nothing he could change about that. What purpose did it serve to be reminded of that every night when he closed his eyes?

Unless...

Sherlock gave a huff of frustration that might have been a failed sob. What if Victor was still out there somewhere, keeping watch from the shadows? What if he was out there, alone, watching Sherlock start to move on?

What if he was out there, and Sherlock didn’t know?

“This is mad,” Sherlock whispered to himself.  “ _This is mad.”_

Victor was not alive, there was no way that he  _could_ be alive and remain hidden from Sherlock. And even if he were, Sherlock couldn’t hang his life on that tiny shred of a false hope. He was a genius who had still taken fifteen years to slowly realise that loving Stanley was not a betrayal to Victor. He wasn’t going to waste another fifteen waiting for approval that would never come.

Sherlock, drained and fighting a headache, finally returned to the bed. Stanley was still asleep, it appeared, his back to Sherlock and one arm shoved under his pillow. Sherlock rested a hand on his back for a moment, feeling his chest expand and contract with each breath; feeling the warmth of his body seep through his t-shirt.

Stanley was here, and Stanley was now.

Sherlock rolled over until they were back-to-chest and slid an arm under Stanley, wrapping it around his chest and pulling him close. Stanley sighed in his sleep and sank back automatically against Sherlock, who wrapped his other arm around Stanley’ waist.

He was almost asleep again, his face pressed into Stanley’ shoulder, when there was a soft, “You wanna talk about it?”

Sherlock suppressed a sigh.

“I woke you.”

Stanley slid their left hands together.

“That’s not an answer.”

“No.”

“Okay,” Stanley murmured, turning his face into the pillow. “M’rubbish at this stuff anyway. David always said so.”

“You’re not.” Sherlock closed his eyes, breathed in the warm spice of Stanley’ skin. “Talking simply will not help in this matter.”

“Then what will?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Nothing.”

But he couldn’t sleep, even with Stanley’s comforting weight at his side, and when Stanley finally fell asleep again Sherlock slipped from the bed.

He left the flat an hour later, just as the night sky was beginning to lighten to grey along the horizon, and made for the cemetery.

Grass clippings littered Victor’s headstone, and Sherlock swept them away with guilt tugging at his chest. He didn’t usually let so many months pass by between his visits—not that Victor would know the difference, of course. But he didn’t relish the thought of the grave going neglected; Victor deserved far better than that.

Sherlock sank to the ground, folding his legs beneath him, and laid his palm flat on the stone. It was dark out still, and he couldn’t read the words.  

“I miss you,” he said, tracing the familiar letters and numbers. The words sounded raw to his ears. “God, Victor, I do. So much.”

He swallowed had several times, fighting for control as his throat dammed up.

“I see you all the time,” he went on softly. “I see you – I see you in my dreams. And I don’t know why –“

He broke off.  

“No,” Sherlock said after a moment. “No, I – I know why. I know that it’s because of him. Because of Stanley. I know that I need him, and that it took me fifteen years to realise it, and now that I have… now that I have, I can’t help but wonder if I was wrong to give up on you all those years ago.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes stinging.

“He’s not you,” Sherlock whispered to the stone. “He’s not you, but he’s wonderful and he's _here_ , and you’re not. And so I was just wondering – I was just wondering if it would be all right. If I cared for him, too, I mean.”

There was, of course, no answer.

 

Sherlock looked in on Stanley when he returned to the flat. He was still asleep, and so Sherlock let him be.

He fixed himself a cup of coffee and retreated out onto the balcony that overlooked Baker Street. This was another new addition to the flat, and had been constructed around the same time all of the new technology had been installed. Out of all the additions, Sherlock really only found this one enjoyable.

The grey sky was lightening to steel blue as the sun inched closer to the horizon. The street below was waking at a leisurely pace. Had this been a weekday, it would already be bustling. As it was Saturday, however, only a few people were out and about.

Half an hour later, Sherlock heard a kettle squeal in the kitchen, and not long afterward Stanley joined him on the balcony.

“Morning,” he said around a yawn. He was still dressed in his sleep shirt and tracksuit bottoms, and his hair was rumpled from sleep.

“Hello.”

Stanley ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair in greeting before sitting down next to him on the floor of the balcony. He slipped his legs between the posts that supported the railing, much as Sherlock had done, and leaned forward to survey the street below.

“Should I be concerned about your affinity for high places?”

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. Stanley sipped his tea contemplatively for a moment.

“You were gone early this morning.”

“I had business to take care of.”

Stanley rubbed Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You can say you were at the cemetery; it’s all right.”

Sherlock glanced at him.

“How did you know?”

Stanley shrugged.

“You had that dream again last night. It wasn’t a terribly far-fetched assumption. Did it help?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said honestly. They were quiet for a while, sipping from their mugs and watching the sunrise. Eventually, Stanley finished off his tea and set his mug aside.

“You don’t like to talk about him,” Stanley said. “I get that. I respect it. I can’t imagine how horrible it must have been to lose him.”

He rubbed a hand over Sherlock’s shoulder blade, the warmth from his palm bleeding through Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock leaned back into the touch.

“But considering what’s happening now between us,” Stanley went on, almost hesitantly, “I think it might be all right – I mean, I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded –”

He stopped, and sighed.

“You _can_ talk to me,” he said at last. “Please. Let me try to help.”

“You’ve always said that you’re rubbish at this stuff,” Sherlock deflected, trying to adopt a light tone. Stanley let out a soft huff.

“I am,” he said quietly. “I still want to try. Just like you are.”

Sherlock rested his left hand on Stanley’s leg. Stanley covered it with his own.

“Tell me about him,” he whispered. Sherlock swallowed, and looked out at the sunrise.

“We met at university when I was seventeen,” he said softly. “He was a year older. We were – together for most of my time there. My mother adored him; his father disowned him. My stepfather –”

Sherlock broke off.

“My stepfather and I never got along, but he was kind to Victor at a time when he needed it most. I never – I never told him how grateful I was for that.”

Stanley squeezed his hand but remained silent. Sherlock slid their fingers together and continued.

“My first name is actually William. I was named after my father, but I stopped using his name when he died. Victor called me _Will_ , sometimes.” Sherlock blinked back a stinging sensation behind his eyes. “I wouldn’t let anyone else do it, but it was different with Victor. I was his Will. I – miss being that.”

“I know,” Stanley murmured. 

Sherlock swallowed hard. 

“He died so that he could protect me,” he whispered. “There were four years that we could have had together, and he gave them up. He took them away from me – from us. And I don’t know if I can ever forgive him for that. And now –”

He broke off. Stanley rested a hand on his shoulder, rubbing lightly with his thumb. 

“And now there’s a part of me that will always wonder whether he’s truly dead,” Sherlock admitted quietly. “Because he wasn’t the first time. And that kills me, Stan. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt him.”

Sherlock gazed at the rising sun, forcing himself to keep staring even as the light burned his eyes and caused them to water. He tried to breathe and couldn’t, and every thought about Victor was agony.

“Stanley,” he managed to croak finally, “I need to stop talking about this now.”

He wiped the heel of his hand under both eyes. Stanley settled a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, and was quiet while Sherlock composed himself.

“For what it’s worth,” Stanley said eventually, “your dreams about Victor bother me only because they’re devastating to you. I don’t care that you love him, or that you think about him, or that he’ll always be a part of you. That’s the way it should be. Just… don’t expect me to _be_ him.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock said. “You are _you_ , and I don’t want it to be any other way.”

“Good.” Stanley rubbed his back gently. “You all right now, old man?”

The nickname sent a rush of warmth through Sherlock’s chest. That was Stanley’s, and Stanley’s alone. 

“Fine,” Sherlock whispered. “Just fine, Stanley.”

“Okay. Come here.”

Stanley leaned back on his hands and nudged Sherlock with his knee. Sherlock acquiesced after a moment and leaned his weight against Stanley, and they sat there, back-to-chest, staring at the rising sun.

It was a new day.


	16. Chapter 16

The Chief Superintendent was good on his word. 

As April became May, he still had not let up on Stanley’s suspension. But Stanley, Sherlock had noticed, wasn’t trying very hard to have it reversed. He kept in contact with the Chief, perhaps calling him once every week or two, but their conversations were always the same. _Not yet_ , Guerra would tell Stanley, and Stanley accepted it without much fuss. 

He kept himself occupied in the meantime, continuing to work on his various home improvement projects when he wasn’t spending time with Sherlock. He started to pay closer attention to Sherlock’s website, and he even began helping out on the occasional private case. They weren’t particularly taxing mysteries and never took very long to solve, but it had been too long since Sherlock had last had a partner in this realm of his work and Stanley’s presence was invigorating. 

As the weeks wore on, Stanley started making noises about finding actual work. Sherlock could tell that the uncertainty surrounding his job at the Yard was beginning to get to Stanley. He was a man who liked to feel useful; who had found purpose in the work. He was still an employee of the Yard, but he was of no use to them while on suspension, and that was difficult for him to deal with. And so, as the days lengthened and the season grew warmer, he started to look for work elsewhere. 

“Got an interview with a robotics research centre tomorrow,” he announced one evening over dinner at Baker Street. “Guess my degree’s still good after all these years, eh?”

“They’d be foolish not to hire you,” Sherlock said. And then he winked, and Stanley flushed scarlet at the compliment. Sherlock loved it when he did that.

They were now at the point where it was rare for them to spend even a night apart. They had fallen into a routine without thinking, and it came to them as easily as breathing. Three months since that first kiss, and Sherlock couldn’t imagine a night without Stanley at his side.

They were in bed one warm spring night, the windows thrown wide to coax in a brisk breeze, when the sharp cry of a mobile pulled them from sleep. Stanley startled, as he always did, and his sudden movements woke Sherlock. They spent a moment trying to disentangle their limbs from one another, and it was another few seconds before Sherlock could wrench a hand free of the bedclothes.

“Whose?” Stanley muttered as Sherlock reached over him to grab the ringing mobile off the bedside table.

“Mine,” he said, and then brought the mobile to his ear. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s Donovan,” the voice on the other end said. “Are you at Baker Street tonight?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’m coming to get you. Get dressed.” She lowered her voice instinctively. “And tell Hopkins it’s a case of attempted murder. Nothing to worry about. See you in fifteen.”

Sherlock rang off and threw back the bedclothes. Stanley, who had nearly fallen asleep again, roused. 

“Wha’?” he mumbled. Sherlock leaned over him and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Donovan. They’ve got an attempted murder and they need me to sit in on the interview with the victim. I’ll be back.”

Stanley moved to sit up, but Sherlock pushed him back down onto the mattress.

“Stay,” he whispered. He gave a quick smile. “I’ve found I rather like coming home to you in my bed.”

Stanley snorted, and then gave him a sleepy kiss. 

“Well, when you put it that way…” he trailed off, stifling a yawn. “Don’t let them keep you too long. You haven’t been sleeping well lately."

“Stanley, you’re doing it again.”

“Sorry.”

Sherlock showered and dressed in what must have been record time. When he went into the bedroom to fetch his mobile and socks, Stanley was already asleep again. Sherlock paused on his way out of the room and watched Stanley for a moment. His face was slack and calm; he looked at ease.

Sherlock wondered when he would see that expression on Stanley’s face again.

Donovan pulled up outside Baker Street three minutes later, and Sherlock slid into the car. 

“He’s back,” Donovan said tersely. 

“I figured. Female?”

Donovan nodded shortly. “The body was called in half an hour ago.”

“How did you know Hopkins would be here?”

At that, an unbidden, tiny smile touched Donovan’s lips. 

“We talk occasionally,” she said. “For a reason that escapes me, you seem make him happy.”

Sherlock nodded. He tapped a finger against the window absently.

“If it helps at all,” he said finally, “the feeling is mutual.”

 

The latest victim had been dumped in the same manner as all the others, and Sherlock confirmed with a glance that she had been dead for approximately two hours. But there were no witnesses to the actual dumping of the body, and so the only clues they had were going to have to come from the body itself.

Anderson ran the standard scan on her face. After a moment, the device beeped, but it was only to tell them that no matches had been found in the database. Sherlock watched Donovan close her right hand into a fist.

“Run it again,” she said tersely. Anderson complied, and then shook his head. Nothing.

“ Do the advanced scan,” Donovan ordered.

The standard scan was a quick one that only compared six data points on a person’s features, and its accuracy rate hovered around eighty-five percent. That was more than adequate for a preliminary identification, and the tool was highly useful in that regard. But if someone wasn’t found on the preliminary scan, it meant either that they had gone off the grid or that there was a glitch in the system. Two negatives in a row suggested the former.

The advanced scan ran comparisons using fourteen data points on the head, and it was used to narrow down results once the preliminary identifications had been made.

“Sally -”

“Do it,” Donovan snapped.

Anderson complied, and they all waited in silence for two, three minutes while the device worked. And when it came back with nothing, Donovan made a frustrated, broken noise in the back of her throat.

“Try -”

“No,” Sherlock said, finally stepping in. “It’s no use. We’re going to have to look for other evidence. May I?”

Donovan clenched her teeth and gave a jerky nod. She stepped aside, allowing Sherlock to kneel by the body.

Sherlock flicked his eyes over the battered and bruised flesh. There were bite marks on the victim’s shoulder and neck; bruises that had been sucked into the delicate skin by greedy, relentless teeth. Sherlock found himself wondering, against his will, if the killer growled as he made each brutal mark. Did he pant, his breath hot on his victim’s skin?

He thought of  Stanley, whose own skin bore such marks under his collar; Stanley, who had begged and whined and swore while Sherlock marked him for his own not two nights ago.

_ Oh, God _ .

“Anything?” Donovan prompted, breaking Sherlock from his thoughts. Sherlock shook his head.

“Nothing that we don’t already know,” he said tightly.

Donovan nodded. She turned back to the team and began issuing instructions. As they started to resume their work, Donovan turned back to Sherlock and said, in a voice so quiet that it was nearly inaudible, “Take a walk for me. Get some air. We’re going to be heading back to the Yard soon, and I need you at your best. All right?”

The rest of the night passed in a haze as they waited for, and then tried to analyze, the various tests that Forensics ran on the victim. The past fifteen years had seen forensic technology improve by leaps and bounds, and tests that normally would have taken weeks to run now only took an hour.

But speed, in this instance, wasn’t helpful in illuminating the case, and at the end of the night they were little better off than when they had started.

“Holmes, get out of here,” Donovan said with a weary sigh. “Go home. You need sleep.”

“Since when do you care about that?”

Donovan snorted.

“I don’t,” she said. “But you stay out any longer and Hopkins is never going to believe you were here working on a case of attempted murder. I’ll call you if we find anything.”

 

It turned out that she needn’t have worried about keeping Stanley in the dark. As ever, he was far cleverer than Sherlock gave him credit for. 

He was still asleep in the bed when Sherlock returned to Baker Street in the hour before dawn, and Sherlock was too unsettled to join him. He didn’t want to disturb Stanley, so he grabbed a lighter and headed for the roof.

It was only then that he realised that he had brought the lighter and forgotten the packet of cigarettes sitting in his desk drawer, and he sighed. He didn’t feel like going back downstairs, though, and occupied himself instead with watching the retreating darkness. Sunrise wasn’t too far off now, and the retreating night air was sharp and cool.

“What are you doing out here? It’s bloody five in the morning.”

Sherlock turned his head to see Stanley emerge from the access staircase.

“Needed a cigarette,” Sherlock grumbled as Stanley approached. “I’m gasping.”

“So why didn’t you bring them with you?”

“I forgot.”

Stanley raised an eyebrow at him. “You forgot.”

“Stanley…” Sherlock trailed off, and shook his head. He wasn’t in the mood for this. “Yes. I forgot.”

“He’s back, isn’t he?”

Stanley’s voice was flat, and his gaze was steady when Sherlock turned to look at him.

“Yes,” he said finally.

Stanley rubbed his back. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock pursed his lips.

“I’m fine.”

Stanley leaned back against the railing. “What’s different about this one?”

“She had bite marks.” Sherlock lifted chilled fingers to Stanley’s collar, resting them for a brief moment against the fabric, just over the spot where a purple bruise still stood out starkly against Stanley's skin. “What I did to you...”

Stanley fixed him with a pitying gaze, and Sherlock dropped both his hand and his eyes. He never wanted to see that look on Stanley’s face again, much less directed at him.

“They aren’t the same thing. Not in the slightest, Sherlock.”

“I know.”  Sherlock swallowed hard. “I don’t want to do this. Not without you. I could bear it… when you were there, too.”

Stanley stared at him. 

“I can’t always be there,” he whispered. 

“I don’t want anything to do with something that doesn’t involve you, too,” Sherlock said sharply. He swallowed again and dropped his gaze. “I can’t do this, Stanley. It’s horrid.”

Stanley reached for him, and he pulled Sherlock into a loose embrace. 

“I’m going to talk to the Chief later today,” he said quietly. “I’m going to beg his forgiveness if I have to, and appeal to his sense of honour if that doesn’t work. Because let’s face it – he was wrong, and I was suspended. I’m going to ask him to put me back on the case now that we know that the serial killer didn’t die that night.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock whispered. He tightened his grip on Stanley. “You mustn’t.”

“You need me.” Stanley pulled back to fix him with a grim smile. “It’s together or not at all, Sherlock, and you won’t pull yourself off the case—I know you too well to hope for that. And I need to see this through to the end.”

\----   
The Chief Superintendent kept Stanley waiting for three days before he made his decision regarding the suspension. 

“It’s just a petty tactic of his,” Stanley grumbled. “He’s angry with me, so he’s making me wait. He’ll bring me back on; he has to.”

And Guerra did, which Sherlock found to be both a relief and horrifying. He and Donovan spent an afternoon catching Stanley up on all that he had missed, which wasn’t much, considering the fact that they had been on the verge of closing the case before the latest victim came along. 

“Did you find anything of note in Dawlins’ background?” Stanley asked them, and they shook their heads.

“No family, few friends, and no one with ties to the Greater London Authority, so far as we can tell,” Donovan said. 

“Forensics get back to us about that room?”

She nodded.

“The DNA on the mattress has so far been matched to the victims – every sample is accounted for. We don’t have any unknown donors,” she said. “The paint, apart from its origin, is unremarkable, and no one can tell us where those cans might have been acquired from or who they were sold to. The most we can narrow that down is that they were intended for use in the Royal Parks, but anyone in the London Authority could have handled those cans.”

“There was a paintbrush also found in the room, as you saw,” Sherlock said, “but there were no fingerprints that could be pulled from it.”

“And now he’s killed again,” Stanley said. He sighed. “Well, he must have a different kill site. That room’s been sealed off and McCormack Industries is swarming with police right now.”

“Right _now_ it is,” Sherlock said suddenly, realisation dawning. “But not until this latest body was found. Prior to that, all police and Forensics had been pulled away from the scene and the factory reopened as normal. Because –”

“Because we were going to close the case, so why bother continuing to analyze the scene.” Stanley raked a hand through his hair. “Bloody hell.”

“So he _needs_ that kill room,” Donovan said. “It’s the one part of this whole thing that is non-negotiable to him. He doesn’t care who he abducts and assaults, but they _have_ to end up in that room. Otherwise – no deal.”

Stanley and Sherlock stared at her.

“Donovan,” Stanley said briskly, “have our boys pull all the footage from McCormack Industries on the night of the latest murder. _Now_.”

\----   
John and Lestrade returned to London for a weekend early in May, and they took up temporary residence in Baker Street.

“I can’t believe you haven’t rented that old room out,” John said to Sherlock one morning in the kitchen. He was referring to his old room, the one upstairs where he and Lestrade were currently staying. Sherlock shrugged.

“There’s no one else in the world mad enough to take it,” he said, and John snorted. 

“I can think of one person,” John said with a wink, and Sherlock found himself caught between snorting in exasperation and choking on his coffee at the thought of Stanley moving in. 

“He’s allergic to dogs, it would never work out,” Sherlock said dryly, deftly side-stepping the subject.

Lestrade came down not long after that, and they all passed a companionable half-hour together while breakfast was cooking.

They were just about to eat when there came a sudden pounding in the stairwell, and a moment later Stanley burst through the door.

“Sherlock!” he called. “Where the bloody hell are - oh. Hello.”

He stopped dead in the kitchen doorway, surveying the scene before him.

“Stanley,” Lestrade greeted warmly, rising from his seat. They shook hands. “You look well.”

John followed suit, and for a few minutes the three of them exchanged pleasantries.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Stanley said briskly, “but this can’t wait for much longer. Sherlock -”

“There’s been another,” Sherlock said. Stanley shook his head.

“No. But we think we might have something on the footage.” Stanley was still slightly out of breath. “Will you come?”

“Go,” John said before Sherlock could respond. “You’re needed. We’ll still be here when you get back.  _Go.”_

Stanley’s team had spent almost a week combing through all the footage from McCormack Industries the day the latest victim was murdered. So far, they had detected no one bringing a young woman by the complex, which meant that the killer obviously knew where the gaps were in the security cameras. 

But the reason Sherlock had been called in on this day was because they had cross-referenced the profiles of every person who appeared on the cameras with the employee database, and they had finally found one anomaly. There was someone who didn’t work at McCormack Industries on the film. He only appeared for a few seconds, but he was clearly an outsider. 

So far, they had had no luck in running the suspect’s profile through the national registry. It had been a long shot in the first place. His face wasn’t visible, and the national registry didn’t usually include body shots along with the usual head shots, but it had been worth an attempt.

Now, they either needed Forensics to clean up the images or for Sherlock to find some clue on the suspect’s body that might point to his identity.

Donovan joined them shortly before the dinner hour, and together they pored over the different stills that had been pulled from the security footage at the McCormack Warehouse.

But the suspect’s clothes were unremarkable. His image was grainy, and the outfit he was weary was bulky. He could have been slim, average, or overweight, and they couldn’t tell for sure because his clothes concealed his true frame.

“Can you tell anything from his gait?” Stanley finally asked in frustration. “His shoes? His watch?”

“I don’t think you can say for certain he’s even wearing a watch,” Anderson pointed out, and Stanley glared at him. “Er – sorry, sir.”

“We don’t even know if this is who we’re looking for,” Donovan said. “He could have been delivering a package, or the post. Or maybe he was meeting someone for lunch. This is the only time we see him on the camera; we don’t know how long he was actually there.”

Eventually, Donovan and Anderson went home. Stanley was going to stay late, but Sherlock took one look at  Stanley ’s weary, defeated face and decided that there was no way he was letting the man put in any more hours tonight.

“Baker Street,” he said, standing finally from the chair in  Stanley ’s office where he had been sitting for the past few hours. His knees popped in protest. “Come on.”

They took a cab this time, as Sherlock didn’t trust Stanley driving at the moment. Sherlock let them into the building, and Stanley trudged up the stairs behind him, his gait laborious and weary. Each step sounded as though it would be his last and when they got to the top he paused, swaying slightly on his feet.

“All right?” Sherlock asked as he unlocked the door. Stanley gave an uncoordinated nod.

“Fine,” he said, but his eyes said  _No_.

He shed his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair in the kitchen while Sherlock added the day's findings to his notes.

“So where does this leave us?” Stanley asked, coming back into the main room with a beer.

_ Absolutely nowhere _ was the correct answer, but one look at  Stanley ’s face told Sherlock that it was also the wrong one. He said, “I’m not sure yet,” instead, and Stanley grimaced.

“Absolutely nowhere, you mean,” he said bitterly, and took a long swallow of beer. He moved over to the sofa and collapsed on it, staring blearily across the room at the wall that was covered in Sherlock’s notes. Sherlock joined him, propping his feet on the low table in front of the sofa. Stanley kicked off his shoes and did the same, and for a while they shared a companionable silence.

“I’m sorry to have interrupted your day for this,” Stanley said finally, for it was well past sunset by now. In fact, it was approaching midnight, and John and Lestrade would have retired long ago. “How long are they in London?”

“Four days yet,” Sherlock said. “One of Lestrade’s nieces is getting married. They decided to make a week of it.”

“Mm.” Stanley finished the rest of his beer in one swallow and set the bottle aside. “I bet it’s nice to have them around again, isn’t it?”

“I could get used to it.”

Stanley’s hand, at some point during their conversation, had found its way to Sherlock’s leg, and he began absently brushing his thumb across Sherlock’s knee. The movement was so absent-minded, so automatic, that Sherlock wondered if Stanley even realised he was doing it. He himself took several minutes to notice it.

Sherlock covered the hand with his own, leaned over, and brushed his lips over Stanley’s. Stanley slid a hand into Sherlock’s hair, drawing him closer, and parted his lips with a sigh. Sherlock pressed Stanley back against the sofa and half leaned over him, sliding a knee between Stanley’s legs. Stanley grunted and let his legs fall open, pulling Sherlock closer with a hand on his hip and the other on the back of his neck. After a moment, he slid his hand from Sherlock’s hip to his groin, and cupped him through his trousers. Sherlock groaned and took Stanley’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting gently.

But Stanley broke away suddenly, just as Sherlock was reaching for his belt buckle, and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s with a frustrated sigh.

“They’re asleep,” Sherlock murmured, moving his attentions to Stanley’s neck. He brushed his lips over the rough evening stubble and elicited a quiet moan from Stanley.

“It’s not that,” Stanley said in a hoarse voice. He caught Sherlock’s wandering hands in his own. “I just - I can’t do this. Not tonight. I’m sorry.”

He paused, trying to bring his breathing back under control. Sherlock tugged gently from his grip and adjusted his trousers before sitting down next to Stanley again, one leg folded underneath him and a hand still in Stanley’s hair.

“What can I do?” Sherlock murmured, tracing the shell of Stanley’s ear with one finger. Stanley shuddered, eyes falling shut at the gentle ministrations.

“Solve this damn thing already,” he whispered.

Sherlock leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth. Stanley turned his head and their mouths met; after a moment, he pulled away. Sherlock’s hand found Stanley’s wrist, and he swept his thumb back and forth across the back of Stanley’s hand, feeling the veins that bulged just under the surface of his skin.

“Come on.” He held out a hand. After a brief hesitation, Stanley took it and was hauled to his feet. “Bed.”

But Stanley slept badly that night, even with Sherlock next to him. When Sherlock woke at three in the morning, he was on his stomach and Stanley was half-draped over his back, his breathing far too shallow for him to be asleep. The bed was warm and Stanley’s presence was a comfort; with great reluctance, Sherlock extracted himself from the warm cocoon and went to the loo.

When he returned, Stanley was awake and staring blankly at the ceiling.

“There’s nothing you could do right now,” Sherlock murmured as he slid back into bed, interpreting Stanley’s expression with ease. “A few hours of sleep isn’t going to make or break this case. And neither is a sleep-deprived DI.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Stanley muttered. “This whole thing is madness.”

“I know.”

“Hell.” Stanley passed a hand over his eyes. “Look at me. Talking about a case in bed. No wonder my marriage lasted all of five minutes.”

“And now you’re talking about a previous relationship while in bed with a current lover,” Sherlock pointed out, unable to keep the smirk from his voice. “On the spectrum of divorce-worthy offenses, where does that one fall?”

“Somewhere between keeping severed heads in the fridge and picking my locks, I imagine.” Stanley gave him a pointed look, and Sherlock chuckled.

They dozed for a time after that. When Sherlock next woke, dawn was approaching and the bed was empty.

He found Stanley in the kitchen, the sole other inhabitant of the flat who was awake at this hour. There was no sign of John or Lestrade having been awake, and their shoes were still sitting by the door. Ajax, who had come with them, was asleep in a corner of the main room.

“It’s too damn early,” Sherlock grumbled to Stanley, laying a hand on the small of his back as he sidled past him in the cramped space.

“It’s been trained into me, I suppose,” Stanley said, his voice warm and rough with sleep. “Anyway, I need to be at the Yard soon, and I should stop home for a change of clothes before then.”

Stanley turned away to tend to the coffee he was making. Sherlock slipped an arm around his waist from behind.

“You can wear one of my shirts,” he murmured into the back of Stanley’s neck.

Stanley took a long swallow of coffee, leaning back into Sherlock’s grip. “People would talk.”

“They already do,” Sherlock said, remembering his conversation with Donovan the night of the last murder, and Stanley snorted. He downed the rest of his drink and leaned in to give Sherlock a long and thoroughly indecent kiss. The floorboards above their heads started to creak, indicating that the other temporary residents of the flat were starting to rise, and they parted when footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Sherlock showered while John and Lestrade chatted with Stanley in the kitchen. He padded out into the kitchen later dressed in only tracksuit bottoms, something that Stanley merely raised an eyebrow at while John remained completely unfazed. He’d seen Sherlock wearing far worse—as well as far less—during their time together as flatmates.

Lestrade was in the main room, reading the paper while Ajax gnawed on a bone at his feet.

“Forget something?” he asked mildly when he saw Sherlock enter the room.

“Missing a shirt,” Sherlock muttered.

“You have others.”

“I don’t _want_ the others.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, and Sherlock eventually found the shirt he’d been seeking—a forest-green one—behind the sofa.

“They seem pretty occupied in there,” Lestrade said as Sherlock made to leave the room, referring to John and Stanley, who were still chatting amiably in the kitchen. John kept breaking into raucous laughter, and occasionally even Stanley gave an audible chuckle, which was rare. “Come and keep an old man company, eh? We’ll let them chat.”

Sherlock intended to refuse, but something stopped the automatic retort from crossing his lips. Lestrade was _here_ , healthy and whole, and given what he’d been through in the last few years it wasn’t likely that it would be that way for much longer. And John was in the kitchen, as he should have been, and Stanley was now here, and for the first time in years the flat felt full and complete.

“I need to get my laptop,” Sherlock said finally. “And trousers.”

Lestrade waved a hand at him, smiling, and Sherlock ducked into his bedroom. He found a clean pair of trousers under the bed and a pair of socks at the bottom of his wardrobe, under one of Stanley’s rumpled shirts. He was going to need to do the washing soon, and he should probably include Stanley’s clothes as well, given how many of them had migrated to Baker Street in so short a time –

Sherlock clamped down on the thought quickly—how _domestic_ it all sounded—and dug his laptop out from under his pillow.

He was just at the mouth of the short corridor that led to the kitchen when a sudden lack of noise alerted him, and he paused in the shadows where he could see and not be seen in return. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he realised that John and Stanley had lowered their voices, and that their conversation had become sombre. At first, Sherlock thought they might be discussing the case, and he hoped to glean more information by listening to their chatter.

But he quickly realised that they were speaking of another matter entirely. Stanley’s back was to Sherlock, and he appeared to be fixing another cup of coffee.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to move in yet,” John said casually. He leaned a hip against the counter, nursing his own tea while he watched Stanley.

“No,” Stanley said absently. “He won’t.”

John looked surprised.

“We’d known each other less than a day when I moved in here,” he pointed out, “and Sherlock didn’t fancy _me_.”

Stanley snorted and turned to face John.

“And that’s a risk he’ll never be taking again.”

“Don’t say that,” John said softly, all hints of light teasing gone from his voice. “He probably just needs some time –”

“He doesn’t want me to move in, John. _Of course_ he doesn’t. Why would he?” Stanley said in quiet exasperation. And then, when John looked shocked at his vehemence, Stanley turned sombre. His eyebrows drew together and his lips thinned. “His father died of a heart attack when Sherlock was just a child. He was in the room when it happened, but he didn’t understand it and of course he was too young to help, even if he’d known what was going on. He watched his mother lose first her memories and then her health over the course of twenty years before she died. Victor was poisoned right under his nose, and you and Greg moved away when he wasn’t expecting it—and certainly before he was ready for it.”

Stanley added another spoonful of sugar to his coffee, stirring slowly.

“He’s lost too many people,” he added softly. “He’s terrified that everyone he loves will leave or die and it will be his fault, or that he’ll be powerless to stop it. That’s why we’ll never...”

Stanley waved a hand vaguely through the air before he picked up his mug of coffee and took a tentative sip. John was watching him silently. He looked completely taken aback, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen John at such a loss for words.

“He’s had his great love. His golden age,” Stanley went on. His words were absent and quiet; he was musing more to himself than for the benefit of anyone else. “This isn’t it. He likes me well enough, but he won’t allow himself to get too close, not again.”

“And what about you? Do _you_ love him?”

John’s question was quiet, but it sounded like thunder. It was met with silence at first.

“I’ll take whatever he’s willing to give me,” Stanley said at last. “It won’t be all of him, but it is some of him. I get to see sides of him he doesn’t show anyone else. I don’t have his whole heart, John, but I do have some of it. However long he’s willing to give that to me—I’m grateful.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” John pressed gently.

Stanley gave a wan smile.

“It should.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a reminder that I’ve taken liberties with some of the medical aspects of this story. Don’t read on if that’s going to bother you. There’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it reference to recreational drug use in this chapter, as well as descriptions of non-fatal illness. And I’ve also undoubtedly taken enormous liberties with procedures of the Yard/police officers.

May became June in the blink of an eye.

Sherlock was quickly swamped with paper deadlines and article research, and by the time he lifted his head from his computer, three weeks had passed. A thin layer of dust had started to accumulate on his kettle and the pots in the kitchen, as well as on the stacks of books in the main room. His scientific equipment and his computer were the only objects in the flat that had seen use in recent weeks; even his bed was stiff and cold with disuse. The blankets had been thrown back, and the mattress still held the impression of two bodies having lain there. Vaguely, Sherlock remembered Stanley coming by one evening, but he could not say for sure whether it was a few days or a few weeks ago.

“Oh, good. I wasn’t sure if you were ever going to surface again,” Alice scolded lightly when she poked her head in later that morning to discover Sherlock ambling about the kitchen in his dressing gown. “Stanley had to come over every day and feed you up. Did you get your papers submitted?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said absently. He checked his mobile and then pocketed it again. It was the third time he’d checked it this hour. He’d texted Stanley earlier and not yet heard back. “Where _is_ Stanley?”

Alice shrugged.

“Sorry, love, haven’t the faintest. He hasn’t been by the past couple of days; that’s why I thought I should stop in and have a look at you. Did you two have a row?”

“I’d like to think I’d remember that,” Sherlock said. He rubbed the back of his neck wearily, trying to work out the kinks with his hand. “If you’ll excuse me, Alice, I need a shower.”

“I’ll say. _And_ you need to do your washing. I’ll do your shirts for you, dear, but like I said at the beginning, don’t expect me to do your under -”

“Yes, thank you, Alice. I _do_ realise that.”

 

Stanley also wasn’t one to ignore his mobile, and it was unusual for him to go more than a couple of hours without acknowledging a text or phone call. Even if he couldn’t give a response right away, he usually let the sender know that he had received the message. He would even text back in the middle of the night if need be, if only to say, _It’s bloody three in the morning. I’ll call you later_.

Sherlock glanced through their messages again after his shower. They had last communicated four days ago--which Sherlock didn’t entirely remember, preoccupied though he had been with his papers. It came back to him now, though, as he scrolled through the mundane exchange.

_ You alive over there? _

_ Busy. _

_ I’m bringing dinner. What do you want? _

_ Busy. _

_ Angelo’s it is, then. _

But Sherlock had sent him a text earlier this morning inquiring after the case, which he surmised must have been the reason for Stanley’s silence. Six hours later, there was still no response.

_ Where’s Hopkins?  _ he finally texted Sally Donovan. Her response was curt, but it was at least immediate.

_ Been out sick for three days. Don’t you two talk? _

_ Too busy fucking,  _ Sherlock shot back in irritation, knowing he was going to pay for the remark later and not caring at the moment. He pocketed his mobile, grabbed his lock-picking tools, and left the flat in a whirl.

A cab got him to Stanley’s house in record time, and Sherlock was heartened by the sight of lights on in the kitchen. He tossed a handful of money at the cab driver and made his way up the footpath. From the way the cab sped off, he surmised that he had overpaid again and the driver didn’t want to stick around long enough for Sherlock to realise this. No matter.

It was early evening by now, but as it was summer this still meant that he was standing on Stanley’s front stoop in broad daylight. He doubted that the neighbours would take too much issue with this--they were used to his comings and goings over the years--but it was best not to press his luck. Sherlock palmed his lock-picking tools and performed the task standing up, meaning that he couldn’t see what he was doing. He had to rely on memory and feel, and hoped he could accomplish the task in a small amount of time so that it appeared to anyone watching that he was merely using a key.

The door opened easily, and Sherlock slipped inside. He turned his back on the empty foyer to shut the door and do up the lock again; when he turned around, he came face-to-face with a diminutive woman holding a gun.

His first thought, as he held his hands up, was that she looked like Stanley. His second thought was that no, Stanley looked like _her_.

_ Hell. _

“Mrs Hopkins, I presume,” he said smoothly, lowering his hands and trusting that she wouldn’t actually shoot someone in her own son’s home—and with his own gun, by the looks of it. Stanley always kept the weapon under lock and key in his study, so Sherlock didn’t see it all that often, but he was sure it was the same gun the woman was holding now.

“You presume too much,” she snapped. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to ring a doorbell?”

“More efficient this way,” Sherlock said. “Especially if the occupant of the house has taken ill, which I assume is the reason for Inspector Hopkins’ absence from this little scene. Does he know you can access his gun?”

Mrs Hopkins narrowed her eyes and, perhaps even more disconcertingly, still didn’t lower the gun. She was a small woman, probably no taller than Sherlock’s chest, but she appeared wiry and alert. Her rust-coloured hair lay in short curls on top of her head, and permanent lines framed her mouth and were stamped at the corners of her eyes. Stanley had her lips and eyes, it would seem, and her severe manner.

“How do you know my son?”

“We work together.”

“You’re not an officer.”

“No, I’m not.” Sherlock took a tentative step forward. She didn’t move, but she also didn’t shoot him, which was a step in the right direction. “I’m not here to harm him.”

“I know; I just don’t like you.” Mrs Hopkins jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen. “Well, you went through all the trouble to get here. Might as well come inside.”

She kept the gun trained on him and followed him into the kitchen.

“Now, what exactly is your business with my son?”

“We work together,” Sherlock repeated. He dug his mobile out of his pocket. “I have something to discuss with him.”

“I can pass along a message.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing that concerns you."

“Mum.”

They both swiveled around. Mrs Hopkins, at last, finally set down the gun. Sherlock, who had been about to text Stanley, looked up and nearly dropped his phone.

Stanley looked like death. He had lost all colour from his face, and his skin appeared papery and thin. His eyes were set into deep hollows in his face, and bruises stained the skin in semi-circles underneath them. He put a hand on the counter, trying to appear casual, but Sherlock could see that it was in fact the only reason Stanley was still standing upright. There was a puncture mark on the inside of his elbow that was surrounded by faint bruising and the fading outline of adhesive tape – he had been hooked up to a drip recently; no more than three days ago.

“Mum,” Stanley said again, his voice weak, “this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, my mother. Ruth.”

“Pleasure,” Sherlock said dryly, not meaning a word of it. Ruth Hopkins didn’t even bother trying to hide her disdain.

“ _This_ is the man I keep hearing about?” Ruth scoffed. “Can’t even be bothered to check up on you, and you want to hang a life on him?”

Stanley’s glare was deadly, even through his obvious illness.

“Enough,” he said in a low voice. “I haven’t the energy for another fight. Just leave it for now, all right?”

“And look at the state of this house!” Ruth gestured around the kitchen. “No food--well, nothing suitable, anyway--and I’m sure that main room hasn’t been cleaned in two weeks! Not to mention the fact that the bathroom has only _one_ bar of soap, and I’d like to know what happened to all the tissues I bought for you the last time I was here.”

Stanley was leaning nearly all of his weight on the counter now, and his knuckles had gone white with how hard he was gripping the surface.

“I burned them,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “just to spite you.”

“ _Stan_.”

“There’s a Tesco’s down the street,” Sherlock jumped in, and the bickering pair turned to look at him. “I’ll take you. They should have all the items you require.”

Stanley was looking at him as though he’d sprouted wings and decided to fly. Ruth appeared as though she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to hit him or hug him.

“I’ll get my things,” she said finally, and disappeared in the direction of the guest bedroom.

Stanley slumped forward the moment his mother had gone, and Sherlock, who had been expecting this, seized him around the waist and held him upright.

“Bed,” he said firmly, and Stanley slipped an arm around his shoulders for support.

“Sorry about this,” Stanley muttered when they finally got him back to bed. He sank back against his pillows with a soft groan of relief. “Didn’t think she’d still be here. She was supposed to have left this morning. Just couldn’t seem -”

“Stanley.” Sherlock perched on the edge of the mattress. “What’s happened?”

Stanley gave a wry twist of his lips.

“Been a bit sick,” he said. “Don’t worry. Mum always has a tendency to fret. Dad’s out of the country on business, and she decided to pop ‘round a few days ago to see what I was up to. She always had the worst timing. _Shit_.”

Stanley screwed his eyes shut, his hands twisting into the bedclothes as he curled in on himself, obviously in pain.

“Stanley,” Sherlock said, alarmed, and put a hand on his shoulder.

“M’fine,” Stanley gasped when he could speak again. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. “M’fine. Jesus.”

It was some seconds more before Stanley could uncurl his hands, which had gone white and bloodless.

“What do you need?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Jus’ sleep,” Stanley whispered. He was quickly growing groggy. “Distract her for a bit. Tell her - tell her the bathroom could probably use a quick cleaning – or something like that. I don’t care. Just give her a task and it’ll keep her occupied for an hour.”

Sherlock gave a wry smile. “Believe it or not, I have experience handling mothers. I’ll take care of it.”

Stanley looked as though he wanted to say something further, but his strength was quickly leaving him. He nodded wordlessly and shut his eyes. Sherlock could still hear Ruth rummaging around in the guest room next door, and so he sat with Stanley for a few minutes longer, until Stanley’s breathing evened out and he slipped into a light sleep. 

 

Ruth Hopkins, thankfully, seemed to feel that it was no longer necessary to threaten Sherlock with a gun. She remained cool towards him nonetheless, and the trip to the shop was icily silent. Once there, however, she realised that she could put Sherlock to good use, and ordered him about the place.

“No, not _those_ apples. Stanley only ever eats these. Honestly, don’t you ever pay attention to him? Here, grab some tissues as well. Oh, and he’ll need some new cleaning supplies for the lino, and some for the dust in his main room—I don’t understand _how_ he can live in that mess. No, no, no, he doesn’t drink that type of coffee.”

“Yes, he does,” Sherlock said, grabbing the appropriate blend off the shelf. It was the first time in over half an hour that he’d spoken, and Ruth narrowed her eyes at him. He stared back steadily, and she relented.

They were in the process of purchasing all of the items—well, Sherlock was purchasing, and Ruth was supervising him—when he remembered the cigarettes. He knew that his stash in Baker Street was running low, and he hadn’t seen any in Stanley’s kitchen, which was where he normally kept his supply.

Ruth looked horrified when he asked the shopkeeper for two packets.

“I hope those are for you,” she said stiffly.

“Stanley smokes as well,” was all Sherlock offered. He pocketed his change, grabbed the bags, and headed for the door. She followed, keeping up with his brisk pace.

“He doesn’t.”

Sherlock blew out an irritated breath between his teeth.

“I daresay I’ve been around your son much more in the past fifteen years than you have,” he said shortly. “I assure you, he smokes. Usually cigarettes; sometimes marijuana. It depends on the kind of day he’s had. He drinks as well, and he even has sex. Lately, with me.”

Ruth’s eyes flashed, and he thought for a second that she was going to strike him. But then her expression cleared suddenly, and even her eyes softened.

“Come with me,” she said. “I have a stop I like to make every time I’m in London. Usually Stanley comes with me, but you’ll do this time.”

She hailed them a cab—a driverless one, which Sherlock wanted to object to but held his tongue about instead—and gave an address that Sherlock couldn’t place on his mental map of the city. His map, though accurate as far as streets went, was out of date when it came to businesses and renovations. London had changed too quickly for him to keep up with, it seemed.

It was a cemetery. They left the cab idling on the side of the road with the shopping inside, and Ruth gripped Sherlock’s elbow. It was a gesture that was more automatic than necessary; he surmised that she was so used to bringing Stanley on this errand that it was nothing more than a reflex. He said nothing about it, though, and merely bent his arm in response.

She led him to a stone that was small and non-descript, and Sherlock swallowed when he read the name.

_ Rachel Hopkins _  
_ 1980-1982 _

“Her name was Rachel,” Ruth said unnecessarily, her tone matter-of-fact. “She was our firstborn. Stanley never knew her.”

“Accident?”

“Illness.” Ruth opened up her handbag and pulled out three polished, smooth stones. She laid them out on top of the headstone, all in a row, and was silent for some minutes. When she spoke again, she said, “I think Stanley misses her. He was born three years after she died, but he still misses her. Misses what might have been, I suppose.”

“She was an unknown,” Sherlock muttered quietly under his breath. “The one unknown in his life.”

“All of us have our ghosts, Mr Holmes,” Ruth said. “Dead children, dead siblings, dead lovers... our tales are more common than we like to believe. We always want to think that we’re unique. We’re not.”

Sherlock snorted.

“It’s easy to see where Stanley gets his practicality from,” he said dryly. For the first time that afternoon, Ruth’s lips quirked into something resembling a smile. But she sobered quickly.

“We never had any other children. I think that weighed heavily on him, sometimes. I think he felt as though he needed to live up to the expectations that we would have held for two children, even though he was only one. He needed to be both what we had and what we lost. I don’t think he realised that he needed to only be himself.” Ruth brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “He works too hard, that one. He’s going to work himself to death one of these days, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“He won’t,” Sherlock said firmly. “I won’t let him.”

Ruth turned to look at him finally.

“I suppose,” she said finally, “if anyone was able to stop him… it would be you.”

It was the closest he was likely to get to a ringing endorsement from Stanley’s mother, and he accepted it with a grateful nod. “Why the stones?”

“Stumped the great detective, have I?” She sobered. “There are so many reasons. Stones seem so simple, don’t they? So primitive and cold. But while flowers may represent life, it is the stone that endures. Stones cannot die, Mr Holmes."

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said at last, because it was expected of him—and also because he felt an unexpected pang of loss on Stanley’s behalf. Ruth gave a slow nod.

“I know.” She considered him for a long minute. “You’re a bit rude, you know. Stubborn as a bull, and with all the tact of a paperclip.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Ruth snorted. “You know something? I think you’re exactly what Stanley needs. David was too kind. You, he’ll listen to.”

“He’s very ill, isn’t he?”

Ruth’s expression became guarded.

“Yes,” she said finally, “and he always will be. But he’ll live a long, normal life if he would only listen to his doctors.”

“ _Listening_ isn’t Stanley’s strong suit.”

That earned him a laugh.

“No, I suppose it isn’t,” Ruth said. “At least, not where his own well-being is concerned.”

They returned to Stanley’s house, and while Sherlock was restocking the kitchen Ruth went into the guest bedroom and gathered the rest of her things. She had been staying here for the past five days, Sherlock noted from her items. Stanley must at least have been functioning earlier in the week, but as of three days ago had been laid out by the illness. Curious.

She stopped by Stanley’s room one last time before departing.

“He’s asleep,” Ruth said when she came back out. “So I’ll leave you to him. Take care of him.”

Sherlock nodded, and saw her to the door.

 

But Stanley wasn’t as asleep as he had led his mother to believe, and when Sherlock looked in on him he found that Stanley was sitting on the side of his bed, his hands gripping the mattress tightly and sweat beading down his neck. Sherlock fetched a flannel and ran it under a cool tap. He returned to the bedroom and laid the cloth along the back of Stanley’s neck.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked finally. “What’s happening to you?”

Stanley was quiet for a long while, his eyes fixed on the floor. The fan on the ceiling churned away slowly, stirring the cool air. A breeze from the open window rustled the curtains, and it carried with it the fresh scent of rain.

“I had a dog when I was six,” Stanley said at last. “Giant beast of a thing. A Bernese Mountain Dog. I called him Barry.”

“It’s good to know your lack of originality appears to have been a lifelong affliction,” Sherlock said dryly. Stanley gave a weak huff of laughter.

“I know. Give me a break; I was six.” he said with a sigh. “God, I loved that dog, though. He was bigger than I was. Nearly too big for my bed, in fact, but he still slept with me every night.”

Sherlock slid an arm around his waist, allowing Stanley to lean some of his weight against him. “You’re allergic.”

“I wasn’t then,” Stanley said quietly. “I went everywhere with him--everywhere I could get away with, at least. I even tried sneaking him to school a couple of times. Have you ever tried to sneak a Bernese somewhere? Doesn’t really work out very well.”

Stanley gave a sudden, bitter laugh, and Sherlock’s arm tightened around him  reflexively .

“I’ve read that allergies aren’t always something you’re born with. Sometimes they develop later on. Mine were like that. They came on slowly. By the time I was ten, I couldn’t even be in the same house as Barry anymore, it was so bad. My parents finally sent him to live with my grandparents. I visited whenever I could, but it wasn’t enough. That dog was everything to me... and he got repaid for it by being banished from his home.”

“It’s unlikely that he thought of it that way,” Sherlock pointed out. “He was a dog, Stanley. He was pleased as long as he had a place to sleep and someone to feed him.”

Stanley gave a soft laugh. “You’re probably right -”

“Probably?”

“ - but it’s a lot more difficult to see that when you’re a ten-year-old kid who just lost his best friend.” Stanley let out a slow sigh. “The thing was, though, it wasn’t really allergies. I mean, it was, but they were part of a larger problem. Have you ever heard of CSS?”

“Churg-Strauss syndrome?” Sherlock asked, and Stanley nodded. “I’m not fluent in the particulars of the disease.”

Stanley blew out a breath between his teeth. “I’m not surprised. It’s chronic _and_ rare, and it manifests in three stages. The first stage involves the development of allergies and asthma. But it doesn’t stop there. I wasn’t actually diagnosed with CSS until university—because up until then, there was no reason to believe I had anything other than a poor respiratory system.”

“What happened?”

Stanley didn’t answer at first.

“You asked me once why I joined the Met,” Stanley said finally.

“You said you wanted a change of pace.”

“I lied.” Stanley shifted, and grimaced. “The, uh, the second stage of this illness is... unpleasant. It came on during my final year at university. It can last for months or years; my bout with it was nine months long. It -”

He broke off. He was beginning to sway with exhaustion, and Sherlock finally persuaded him to lie back down. He then shucked off his shoes and slid under the blankets, gathering Stanley back against his chest.

“It’s the worst feeling in the world,” Stanley continued finally, quietly, “losing control of your body like that. Night sweats, uncontrollable coughing, pain that doesn’t let up... it’s a nightmare. There wasn’t much they could do at the time. The doctors just defined it as _malaise_. I was going to be uncomfortable and ‘out of sorts’ for an indeterminable amount of time. I just had to suffer through.”

He relaxed slightly, leaning more of his weight back against Sherlock, who tightened the arm he had around Stanley’s waist.

“No,” Stanley said with a sigh. “No, that’s not the worst feeling in the world. The worst is when they tell you there’s nothing they can do for you. When they tell you that your body’s going to betray you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“You did something about it, though,” Sherlock ventured.

“Tried, at least. I was too ill for the army, of course, but by the time I’d graduated from university I could at least mask my symptoms well enough. Hide the pain. I joined the Met not long after that. I needed to prove to myself that I could function despite the illness. That I wasn’t going to let my body betray me in that way. God knows it wasn’t wise, and it was more a punishment than anything else. I _hated_ everything about that illness, and about myself. The physical training almost killed me.”

“But you stayed.”

Stanley gave a soft huff. “By the skin of my teeth, yeah. I got through the physical training, and the rest was a breeze. I was put on high doses of steroids to suppress the worst of the illness, and eventually they found the right dosage of medication. I could live with it at last.”

“And then the third stage of the illness kicked in.”

Stanley gave a slow nod but made no vocal acknowledgement. Sherlock realised then that he must be exhausted, and when he lifted his head to look he saw that Stanley’s eyes had slipped closed. He kissed Stanley’s cheek and settled back against the pillows again.

“You should sleep.”

“Yeah, I know. In a minute,” Stanley murmured. He sighed. “I was twenty-eight when the third stage of the illness hit. Everything that could have gone wrong did. Earlier symptoms came back in force. My lungs and heart were affected especially, and arteries throughout my body started to affect blood flow to some of my organs. Started to cut it off. There was a severe risk of necrosis. I was put on leave. I almost lost the job simply because I couldn’t function anymore.”

“What happened?”

“I was twenty-eight,” Stanley said again. “Do the math. What do you think happened?”

It only took a moment for Sherlock to make the connection. “Lestrade.”

Stanley gave a slow nod. “Lestrade.”

“You transferred to his team that year.”

“I met him by chance one day. He was working a case and noticed some discrepancies that he couldn’t explain. I happened to be in the lab at the time on a different errand, but his case caught my eye.” Stanley blew out a breath between his teeth. “I shouldn’t have stopped--it's against protocol to look at information regarding someone else’s case--but I had to say something. I mentioned something his team might want to look for--blood spatter behind a sofa or something, I don’t really remember. Turns out I was right. Ended up cracking their case wide open. Lestrade inquired after me the next day, but I was out ill. Again. He got the full story from my supervisor.”

“And he pushed the paperwork through to have you transferred,” Sherlock finished.

“I don’t know how he managed it,” Stanley said, and now his voice was thick. “I was transferred within a week, and Lestrade came to me - he came to me and said that he didn’t want to see me on duty for at least three weeks. I was to go straight to the hospital and get my treatments straightened out, and he would see me first thing at the beginning of January. And he’d give me - he’d give me any time off that I required until I got the damn illness into remission. I don’t know how he did it. I must have cost him thousands. But he kept me on even though I was out sick, and when I got better – I had a job. A job I loved, no less. I swore then that I wouldn’t let him down for taking a chance on me. I _couldn’t_ let him down.”

“You didn’t. You haven’t.”

There was a tiny smile in Stanley’s voice. “He gave me a chance when I needed it most. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

“What happened last week?” Sherlock asked. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were busy.”

“I’m never too busy for you.”

Stanley sighed. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. Like this. Anyway, I’d been feeling tired recently—not just lack-of-sleep tired, but a bone-deep, aching exhaustion. It was accompanied by joint pain and breathing difficulties, and nose bleeds that wouldn’t stop. I knew what it probably was, but I didn’t want it to be that, so I ignored it.”

“Of course you did.”

“My mother didn’t actually come down on a whim to visit; my father is out of the country, that’s true, but Mum called last weekend to chat and I got a nosebleed in the middle of the vid call. She knew exactly what was going on. Showed upon my doorstep later that afternoon, because she knew I was going to ignore the issue. She couldn’t get me to do anything about it until Tuesday, though.”

“What happened?”

“I collapsed.” Stanley gave a tiny shrug. “Couldn’t move. It felt like all of my organs were on fire at once. Anyway, she got me to the hospital and I got put on high doses of steroids. They’ll start tapering them back as my body responds to the treatment.”

“The pain?”

“It’s normal. Body’s reacting to the loss of blood flow. It’s kind of painful when your organs start to necrotize inside your living body.” Stanley’s words were bitter. “It’ll all even out soon. The breathing issues, the pain, all of it will go away in time.”

“And you’ll be fine.”

Stanley’s grip on Sherlock's arms tightened.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ll be fine.”

He rolled over so that he was on his back. Sherlock let his arm fall loosely over Stanley’s torso and rested his forehead against Stanley’s temple.

“Was my mother all right to you?” Stanley asked softly.

“No worse than her son,” Sherlock told him, and he felt Stanley roll his eyes.

“I was afraid you two would get on.” Stanley felt for the drawer in his bedside table, and after a few moments of rummaging he pulled out a small object. He handed it to Sherlock. “Just to be safe, though, better hang on to that. Now that Mum knows where my gun is, it’s probably best that she doesn’t come upon you breaking into the house again.”

Sherlock squeezed the key tightly in his hand, feeling it cut into his palm.

“Yeah, all right,” he said gruffly. “Thank you.”

“Oh, that got me a _thank you_ ,” Stanley said in only partial mock-surprise. “What _did_ she do to you?”

Sherlock pressed his nose into the back of Stanley’s neck, and then placed a kiss on his shoulder.

“She gave me you,” he said simply. _In more ways than one_ , he added silently, thinking of her less-than-conventional blessing. “She gave me the most wonderful man I have been privileged to know.”

“Sentimental oaf,” Stanley said thickly, and Sherlock kissed his brow.

“Yes. But only where you are concerned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is Jewish custom to put stones on gravesites.


	18. Chapter 18

Stanley returned to work the following Monday. 

He’d only had one treatment since his flare-up was diagnosed, and even though the day of his infusion had been exhausting, by the time the start of the week came around he was on his way to being his old self again. Some of the colour returned to his face and he was able to sleep for six hours now, which was a far sight better than the two or three he had managing in the days previous. 

He was going to be combating pain and fatigue for a while, his doctors said, but nothing like he had been experiencing before the treatments. And, considering how well he was responding to the medication this time around, it was likely that he wouldn’t suffer another flare-up for a very long time – if he ever did again. 

“Look at us,” Stanley said one night, a weak laugh escaping him. He was lying on the sofa in his home with his head in Sherlock’s lap, drained from a six-hour infusion that left him aching and less-than-lucid. “Falling apart, we are. Your hand, my… everything.”

“Guess we’re just a couple of old men,” Sherlock teased lightly, and Stanley groaned. “Welcome to the club.”

But it wasn’t long before Stanley’s energy levels returned to something resembling normal, and it was soon possible to look at him and not realise that he was sick. Stanley’s mood lightened considerably once that happened. He could deal with being ill, Sherlock discovered, so long as no one else knew about it – and so long as he wasn’t pitied for it. 

The return of his energy levels meant that he was back to attacking the serial killer case with vigor. He had taken to passing the suspect’s grainy image around local shops and businesses, and the Yard released it to the media and tabloids. Pretending that they knew less than they did had only gotten them so far in the past nine months. It was time to change tactics, and to put everything out there for the rest of the world to see. 

In early June, an anonymous tip led to the identification of the latest victim – number six in this current spree, and number eleven overall. Madeline Johnson had no family and few friends, and she’d worked at the front desk of a tiny shop that saw very little business. Still, someone remembered her name, and when her picture was shown on a news report, it was called in.

This meant that there was only one victim who still had no name, and that ate at Stanley like acid. 

He started spending more and more evenings at the Yard, and twice was there the entire night. He had no spare time to speak of, and so he made some, canceling lunches with Sherlock and staying after his shift had finished so that he could work on the unidentified woman’s case on his own. 

They went days without seeing one another, and Sherlock didn’t like that one bit. 

Which was why, on this evening, he was heartened to see that all of the lights on the ground floor of Stanley’s house were on.  It was unusual for Stanley to be up at this hour, especially when he had a shift first thing in the morning, but Sherlock hadn’t seen him for three days and he wasn’t about to complain.

But he happened to glance down the street as he dug out his key, and he caught sight of a nondescript black car parked discreetly on the corner. It was trying so hard to be inconspicuous that it was instantly noticeable, and Sherlock was too used to seeing that car parked outside Baker Street or at a crime scene. His blood boiled, and he jammed the key into the lock with more force than was necessary, good mood evaporating.

“It’s one thing for you to set up meetings with him and burden him with a security detail,” Sherlock snarled as he strode into Stanley’s main room. Stanley whipped around, startled, but Mycroft, who was sitting in an armchair, merely lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock’s entrance. “It’s another entirely for you to come into his home. Get out.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” Stanley said calmly, having recovered himself. “He was just on his way out anyway.”

“It’s not fine,” Sherlock snarled. “What do you want with him?”

“Nothing that concerns you, brother,” Mycroft said serenely.

“If it concerns him, it concerns me,” Sherlock snapped.

“I can speak for myself, you know,” Stanley cut in firmly. “And I say it’s fine, so it’s fine. He wanted to discuss my security detail, actually, and he was just leaving.”

Sherlock was not convinced.

“That’s what you told Victor to say, you know,” he hissed at Mycroft. “You kidnapped him every other weekend, and all he would ever say about it was that you were discussing security details. Did he feed that line to you?”

The last sentence he snapped at Stanley, whose nostrils flared.

“No one fed me any line,” he said in a low voice, clearly on the verge of losing his temper. “I can speak for myself, thanks very much. I’m telling you, it’s _nothing_. Believe it or not, Sherlock, no one can make me do a thing I don’t want to. I can say no to your brother, if need be.”

“Unless he made you an offer you couldn’t refuse.”

“Sherlock, I assure you,” Mycroft said smoothly, getting to his feet, “I have nothing but Inspector Hopkins’ best interests in mind. I only -”

“Best interests?” Sherlock hissed. “You have no one’s interests in mind but yours! Don’t give me that, Mycroft. I won’t let you do to him what you did to Victor. Now get out.”

Mycroft paused, and his smug look vanished. His expression became stone.

“What are you trying to imply, Sherlock?” he asked with deadly calm.

“You know very well what. Victor died _because of you!_ ” Sherlock bellowed. Stanley made a move towards him, but Sherlock threw out his hand, halting him. The room had gone deadly quiet, except for the pounding of blood in his ears.

“Sherlock, I understand your frustration -”

“Frustration?” Sherlock gave a wild laugh that skittered up the scale. “Frustration, is that what you think this is? You have no idea - _no idea_ \- what it was like. What it’s _been_ like. You cannot comprehend the _agony_ of losing part of yourself. He was the best part of my life and you _killed him, Mycroft!_ Why did you send him on all those missions? Why would - why would you let him die for me?”

Sherlock reeled back, swiping a shaking hand across the back of his mouth while he struggled to hold onto his composure.

“I could have gone on that mission alone to take down Moriarty’s network,” he hissed. “That was the plan. Why didn’t you let me stick with the plan? Why did you have to drag him into that disaster? _He deserved better!_ ”

Sherlock grabbed the nearest object--the small clock on the mantel--and whipped it at Mycroft. His brother sidestepped the heavy object with surprising agility, and it crashed into the far wall, leaving a sizable dent before clattering to the floor.

The silence that followed was deadly. Sherlock couldn’t seem to bring his breathing under control, and his hands were shaking so badly he had to ball them into fists.

“He was mine,” he whispered unsteadily. “He was mine, and you couldn’t stand that, could you? You couldn’t bear the thought of me having something that you hadn’t played with, too. You love the feeling of pulling one over on me. Keeping secrets I don’t know; sending _my partner_ on missions he couldn’t tell even me about! That must have been so thrilling. And now he’s dead, and he took your secrets with him. Well done, Mycroft. You won after all.”

Mycroft’s expression still did not change.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I did. You are alive. That’s all that ever mattered to me. I _won_ , as you so crudely put it, and I don’t regret a minute of it.”

Only Stanley’s quick reflexes saved Mycroft that time. He lunged forward, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and hauling him back as he started towards Mycroft.

“Right, lads, that’s enough,” Stanley said quickly. He turned Sherlock around shoved him in the direction of the kitchen. “Go. And Mycroft, perhaps you’d better leave for now.”

“I’ll be back,” Mycroft promised blandly. Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen and manually shut off the lights. Behind him, he heard Stanley sigh.

“I know you will.”

Sherlock hunched over the counter, resting his elbows on the polished surface and burying his face in his hands. He was still shaking with residual rage, and biting sorrow left a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He could still feel blood pounding in his head, and his ragged breathing echoed in his ears. He tried to focus on that, counting the seconds as he inhaled and exhaled, and when he managed to make them both last six seconds, he finally straightened.

The door to the kitchen slid open, but Stanley didn’t turn on the lights, for which Sherlock was distinctly grateful. He swiped the pad of his thumb discreetly over his cheeks and swallowed hard.

“Well,” Stanley said finally, his voice filled with too much understanding, “that was a long time coming, wasn’t it?”

He placed a hand on Sherlock’s back, resting it between his shoulder blades.

“He can’t have you,” Sherlock said roughly.

“He won’t.”

Sherlock snorted. “You don’t know him.”

“He doesn’t know _me_ ,” Stanley corrected. “Sherlock, I’m not like you, or him, or - or Victor. I don’t need puzzles and stimulation to keep the tedium from eating at my mind. And I’m not so blindly in love with you that I’d rather live without you than see you dead. I’m not like any of you--and forgive me for being so bold, but I think that’s why you like me.”

Sherlock turned to look at him, and Stanley gave him a weak smile.

“There’s literally nothing Mycroft can offer me that is more appealing to me than simply being at your side. That’s enough. That’s all I need. I’ll not be leaving you.”

Sherlock brushed his knuckles against Stanley’s jaw.

“I don’t know that I could bear it if you did.” He folded his arms tightly across his chest and leaned back against the counter, crossing one ankle in front of the other.

“Well, that’s heartening, because you’re probably going to kill me for what I’m about to say next.” Stanley lifted his chin. “You need to go talk to him.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not. I’ll not be apologising to him.”

“That’s not what I said,” Stanley pointed out. “I said _talk_ to him.”

“Why should I?” Sherlock snapped.

“He’s family.”

“Which means nothing. I don’t love him,” Sherlock snarled. “I don’t even _like_ him.”

Stanley snorted at that.

“As if those two aren’t mutually exclusive,” he said dryly. “I don’t like _you_ , most days. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

The admission came as naturally as breathing, and it took Sherlock a moment to pick up on it.

“What?” he asked dumbly.

“I love you, you great oaf. Is that really so surprising?” Stanley said quietly. He brushed his lips over Sherlock’s brow and added, “And I promise never to die for you, or to think that I know better than you what you want out of life, or to go on a half-cocked mission without dragging you along with me.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, his mouth suddenly dry even as something eased in his chest. “Right. I - appreciate that.”

Stanley snorted.

“Good to know,” he said dryly. “Now go talk to your brother. He has the ability to make life very difficult for us and I’ve got enough to worry about right now without him hanging over my shoulder. And the last thing I need is you spending the foreseeable future brooding.”

“I don’t _brood_.”

Stanley put a hand on the side of Sherlock’s throat and stroked a thumb along his jaw, his expression achingly tender. Sherlock swallowed hard but held his gaze.

“You’ve been holding onto that for a long time, what you said tonight. I don’t think even Mycroft saw it coming, though he hid it well. _Talk_ to him, Sherlock. I think you need it. And maybe - maybe it will finally let you put part of Victor to rest.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, but finally nodded. Stanley squeezed his arm.

“I’m going to bed,” he said.

“I’ll join you in a bit.”

Stanley gave an understanding smile, like he didn’t believe Sherlock but was going to indulge him anyway. “I’ll see you later.”

 

Mycroft was in his London office tonight.

He looked up when Anthea showed Sherlock into the room. When she had gone, Sherlock said, in some surprise, “You seem to have acquired a dog. One of your beasts from Baskerville, I take it?”

“No,” Mycroft said calmly, his eyes flicking to the golden-haired dog who was asleep before the fire on the other side of the room. “Your stray.”

Sherlock blinked, and stared at the animal again.

“I said to find someone to look after him,” he said. Mycroft nodded.

“I did. At least, temporarily. He’ll be transferred into your care when you’re ready for him.”

“I don’t want a dog.” Sherlock hated when Mycroft did this; when he had a conversation that only he knew the outcome of, leaving Sherlock miles behind. 

“That doesn’t mean you’re not going to get one. Just wait, little brother. You’ll see.” Mycroft looked back down at his paperwork and resumed filling it out. “You’re here to talk.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’m told it’s what people do.”

Mycroft smirked. “I do hope you aren’t expecting a tearful heart-to-heart.”

“I do hope _you’re_ not expecting a profuse apology.”

“Never.” Mycroft gestured to the chair before his desk, and Sherlock sat. “Did he send you?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft got to his feet and walked over to the antique mahogany cabinet that sat discreetly in a corner. He opened it and pulled out a bottle filled with amber liquid. “He’s a good man.”

Sherlock inclined his head. “A far better man than I.”

“Far better than us both, I should think.” Mycroft poured a drink and handed it to Sherlock. He then poured one for himself.

“He deserves better.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “But what he _wants_ is you.”

“So I’m beginning to realise.” Sherlock took a long swallow of the drink. “And I think I may reciprocate.”

“It’s plain to anyone that you do,” Mycroft said. He took a tentative sip of his drink. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

Mycroft took a seat behind his desk again, tumbler in hand. He took a long swallow of the drink and stared at Sherlock, who fought not to look away from his brother’s penetrating gaze. After a moment, Mycroft broke eye contact. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a thick folder.

“Victor entered my service at the age of twenty-one,” he said quietly. “It was not long after his graduation from university. He remained in my employment for the next fourteen years, until his untimely death at thirty-five. He spent nearly half of his life in the service of this government, and as a result his life was highly censored and classified. He couldn’t even share details about his work with you, which I know was very trying on him. He expressed his frustration about that on a number of occasions.”

Mycroft’s voice remained quiet and steady, as though he were reciting information from a report. Sherlock’s mouth had gone dry, and his hand tightened on his glass.

“And more than that,” Mycroft went on, “this withholding of information was cruel. Especially when, in the wake of his death, his missions remained classified. The biggest part of his life had to remain hidden, for various security reasons, from the one person most important to him--until now, that is.”

Mycroft finally slid the folder across the desk to Sherlock, who didn’t move.

“This is the Bolivia file,” Mycroft said gently. “While I have no doubt that Victor shared some of his missions with you while you two were on the run, he undoubtedly didn’t tell you everything. He couldn’t. And until recently, I couldn’t allow the files to speak for him. I’ve spent the last few years working to declassify everything Victor ever worked on, in the hopes that the information might be handed over to you, Sherlock. I’ve finally been successful. This is only a small part of what you’ll be receiving.”

Sherlock finally reached out and placed a hand on the file, but he didn’t open it. _Bolivia_. The mission that started it all; the one that had killed Victor the first time around.

“How many?” he croaked finally.

“Six boxes full of files just like that one are being delivered to Baker Street as we speak,” Mycroft said. “That’s all fourteen years. They contain handwritten notes, photographs, surveillance footage, and audio recordings of Victor’s debriefings. It’s everything he ever wanted to share with you, Sherlock. He also kept thorough journals, especially during the four years you thought he was dead. I believe he addressed all the entries to you.”

Sherlock felt a pressure building behind his eyes, and tried to blink it away.

“Why?” he whispered. “Why give these to me?”

“Because you need to know why he did the things that he did,” Mycroft said. “And the only person who can tell you that is Victor. His papers will have to speak for him. Knowing Victor and his meticulousness, they will be an adequate substitute.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair.

“If I am to blame for Victor’s death,” he said calmly, “then he is as complicit as I. If you’re going to damn me, you must damn us both. But I rather think you’ll find that we were only doing what we thought best, given the evidence and the circumstances. We couldn’t divine the future, Sherlock. I dare you to have been in our shoes and chosen any differently. One last thing.”

Mycroft opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small, grey box. He placed it on the desk and opened the lid so that Sherlock could peer inside.

“This was Father’s,” he said of the silver ring that lay inside. “When you wed Inspector Hopkins, give this to him as his wedding band. They are the same ring size, and I know Father would appreciate one of us getting use out of it.”

Sherlock stared at him in complete stupefaction.

“I - we’re not,” he stammered. “I hadn’t planned on - or even thought -”

“You will,” Mycroft said calmly. He placed the lid back on the box and pushed it into Sherlock’s hand. “Good night, Sherlock. Anthea will see you home.”

 

Stanley had fallen asleep with the lights on and a book abandoned on his chest. He started awake when Sherlock removed the book.

“Oh, s’you,” he muttered when he realised it was only Sherlock.

“Who were you expecting?”

“Dunno.” Stanley curled up on his side and hugged his pillow to his chest, burying his face in the soft material. “Someone rich and gorgeous.”

Sherlock reached over him and snapped off the light.

“I don’t have to work another day in my life if I don’t want to,” he pointed out as he slid under the blankets. He pressed himself to Stanley’s back, wrapping an arm around his waist and resting his forehead against the back of Stanley’s neck. “And I believe I heard the words _fucking perfect_ cross your lips the other night.”

“Hmph. You had three fingers up my arse at the time, if I remember correctly. I’d’ve said anything at that point.” Stanley yawned, and then muttered, “Time is it?”

“One.”

“Christ. Gotta be up in a few hours.”

“I know. I’ll be sure to wake you.”

“Sure?”

“I don’t mind.” Sherlock shifted, finding a more comfortable spot on the mattress. “I’ll probably be up anyway.”

“Mm. Knew I kept you around for a reason.”

“I’m just being used, is that it?”

“Oh, good, you’ve finally caught on.” Stanley yawned again, and the light teasing left his voice. “Sorry. Long day.”

“I know.” Sherlock pressed his face into the back of Stanley’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He breathed in the scent of laundry soap; relished the feel of the soft fabric of Stanley’s worn t-shirt against his cheek. “I was listening in.”

“Hm?”

“The week that John and Lestrade were here, when you were in the kitchen with John – I heard your conversation.”

Stanley stilled in his arms. “You weren’t supposed to.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock kissed his shoulder. “But you were wrong.”

“How’s that, now?”

“I had a great love, yes,” Sherlock said softly. “But now I have another."

He swallowed hard, and added, “I’m sorry for what I said tonight, about him being the best part of my life. He was at the time, but now you are. I hope you don’t think otherwise. I'm - ”

“Sherlock.” Stanley stopped him with a finger on his lips. “Stop apologizing to me, would you? It’s _fine_.”

He rolled back over and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. “Besides, it’s too bloody early in the morning for introspection. You said what you needed to say to Mycroft; it’s all right. Honestly, I don’t mind. Okay?”

“All right.” Sherlock couldn’t keep the smile from his voice. He rested his chin on Stanley’s shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

Stanley hummed in agreement and fell asleep minutes later. Sherlock remained awake for a while after that, marveling at the fact that it was possible to feel this content.

It could be like this always.

He thought of his father’s ring, now tucked safely in the back of his desk at Baker Street. He had no recollection of it on his father’s hand. 

He wondered what it might look like on Stanley’s.

\----

Stanley left for work the next morning before Sherlock had got out of bed. Sherlock, who normally didn’t like spending time in the house when Stanley wasn’t there, lingered for several hours.

And then, finally, he worked up the nerve to return to Baker Street.

Six boxes were stacked neatly in the corner of the main room, near the piano that had been Victor’s. They were plain and unassuming—much the opposite of Victor, Sherlock thought absurdly.

The first three boxes were nothing but files. Case after case, location after location, Sherlock flipped through them all. His head had started to swim by the time he got through the first box, and by the third he was developing a stellar headache. How Victor had managed to fashion a semblance of a life for himself in France whilst also going on Mycroft’s numerous missions, he would never know. He’d gone on well over thirty missions in the four years he had been “dead,” and each one sounded more dangerous than the last.

The files were comprised of notes written in Victor’s scrawling hand; of surveillance camera photographs; of plane tickets and false papers. Sherlock found himself staring for an abnormal amount of time at the writing, for though the notes were of no use to him, it had been so long since he’d seen anything new written in Victor’s hurried hand. It was mesmerizing.

The fourth and fifth boxes were all items that had been salvaged from Victor’s French home. That, along with Victor’s Norfolk estate, had been razed fourteen years ago under Sherlock’s orders. He had been unable to salvage any of Victor’s personal possessions from the French house, per Mycroft’s instructions, because apparently anything Victor might have handled during his four years away was considered confidential information. It had been gathered and held, as far as Sherlock knew, under lock and key ever since.

But now his personal possessions, what few there had been, were gathered in these boxes. Much of what Victor had owned had been sacrificed to a fire back in France at the start of their joint mission to take down Moriarty’s network, but some items had survived. There were a couple of Victor’s favourite books in the boxes, and each one contained notes by him written in the margins. His favourite worn jumper was there, too, along with his model of an 18th-century sailing vessel and a small cross that had hung on the wall in his study.

Sherlock spent some minutes sifting through the personal contents, trying to fight back the flood of memories that they brought on. He had stayed in Victor’s house for some weeks the summer after his fall, and he remembered seeing all of these on display around the home. He pressed the jumper to his face, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of the old cotton, imagining that he could still smell Victor’s cologne clinging to the fabric. He had worn the garment at night, when the summer evenings turned cool. Its scent now was alien but its touch was familiar, and for a moment Sherlock could pretend that he had pressed his face into Victor’s shoulder.

But the image faded, as all of his fantasies did, and Sherlock set the jumper aside.

The sixth and final box was filled with what appeared to be plain, leather-bound books. It was only when Sherlock picked one up and opened it that he realised this was something new entirely.

_ I’ve a new class of students tomorrow. They’re younger than what I normally teach, but Georges is on sabbatical and we’ve been left in a bind. _

These were Victor’s journals.

Sherlock had never known him to keep any whilst they were at school, and he certainly hadn’t taken it up during their few years together after graduation. This must have been a development brought on by Victor’s first death, and by the circumstances of their separation.

He wondered how Mycroft had managed to get hold of them.

_ This house is too big, Sherlock,  _ Victor had written in June 2007. _I wish you could be here._

_ I’m back in London,  _ he wrote later on that year. _Another mission. You look like hell, Will. I know it’s because of me, and there’s nothing about that that I don’t hate._

_ Close call tonight _ , Victor wrote in a shaky hand almost a year later. _Two inches to the left and that bullet would have gone straight through your head. I don’t often like to think about where you’d be right now if I hadn’t done what I did last year, but I can’t help it tonight. You’d be dead, Will. You’d be dead and gone. I won’t let that happen._

Sherlock took a seat on the floor in front of the cold fireplace and turned the pages of the journals with shaking fingers.

_ John seems like a decent fellow _ , said 30 January. _Not really your type, though, is he?_

_ Looks like you weren’t his type, either,  _ a 12 June entry amended. _Sleeping with Greg. You’ll figure it out eventually._

_ Met someone in town yesterday,  _ Victor wrote on a 17 March. _Beautiful eyes. Pegged me for a non-native speaker in about two seconds. No one’s done that in a very long time. We got to talking. He’s from Bristol. Small world._

_ His name is Malcolm,  _ was the only thing written two days later, on 19 March.

A week later, Victor had written, _Start anew, Mycroft said. As if it was that easy. As if I hadn’t left half of who I am behind forever. It’s absurd, but I keep feeling like I’m waiting for something. Waiting for you. We’ll never be reunited again, most likely, but I can’t just start over. Not yet._

The entries went on, covering the year leading up to their final reunion.

_ Malcolm came home with me yesterday. _

_ Malcolm is brilliant. He’s kind, too. He makes a fantastic omelet. _  
_ He’s not you. I can’t keep doing this. _

_ I’ve made Mycroft promise that if I should die before you, he’ll turn these papers over to you. I know it will be a shock—it’s probably nothing short of cruel, in fact. I am so terribly sorry. I only ever wanted to keep you safe, and this is the only way I could see of doing it. You are loved, Will, and you are loved by me. I’ll not let anything happen to you. Not while I’m around. _

_ I hope you find someone _ , _Sherlock,_ read one of the entries near the end – 11 November. _You’re so unhappy. It’s all right. I know it’ll happen eventually._

_ Find someone,  _ began a more insistent 24 June entry. _I hope he’s brilliant, and I hope he’s kind. I hope he’s everything for you that I can’t be. And I hope you find him soon. Do that for me, Will. And do it for yourself._

_ Find someone. Love him, and love him well. It’s all I ask. _


	19. Chapter 19

It took Sherlock a week to properly sort through Victor’s items.

He read through all the case files, committing them to memory as best as he could before boxing them up again and putting them in storage. He kept all of Victor’s personal items in the flat - even the cross, which he hung on the wall next to his bedroom door. He made space for Victor’s journals on his overflowing bookcase, but not before scanning each page and uploading it to the flat’s computer system. Now that he had them, he didn’t want to run the risk of ever losing those words.

And finally, when that had all been accomplished, he told Stanley what Mycroft had done.

“I’d wondered what you’d been up to this past week,” Stanley admitted. “I figured it had something to do with your row. How do you feel?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say _fine_ but what came out instead was, “Empty.”

It was the most accurate description he could think of. Stanley looked sympathetic.

“I can only imagine,” he said quietly, brushing a thumb over the lines at the corner of Sherlock’s right eye. “Must have been draining to read through all those journals.”

It had been. Sherlock felt as though all of his energy had been drained by the mere act of reading Victor’s words. He had imagined each and every situation Victor had got himself into, and had combed through his own memories to try to slot in what he now knew about Victor’s years as a dead man. There were cases that he himself had been involved in that Victor had a hand in as well, and knowing that now was disconcerting. He was working to come to terms with it, and to modify his own memories of the events of his life. 

It was exhausting.

But the distance of days worked wonders, and his mind slowly got used to this new information - about Victor, about himself, about his life and the man he’d loved. It started to feel less like an ill-fitting glove and more like a comfortable suit. Soon, he knew, it would be all right. 

Sleep worked wonders. It was reparative and soothing, and it allowed his mind to work without his consciousness getting in the way. Stanley was soon occupied with work again, and eventually Sherlock succumbed to his exhaustion. He slept on and off for the better part of twenty-four hours, and for a while after that remained in his bed, listening as a stiff wind pushed against the building and a steady rain began to beat down on the roof.

When he finally ventured from the sanctuary of his bed, the flat was dark, even though it was mid-morning. Sherlock pulled his dressing gown tighter around his body and went over to the window, brushing aside the curtain. The buildings across the way and the street below were grey and smudged, distorted by the water that was streaming down the glass.

“Good morning, dear,” Alice chirped as she stepped into the flat, carrying a bag of shopping. “I was just down at the shops; thought I’d pick you up some more sugar and tea. I noticed yesterday that you were out.”

Sherlock went over to his desk and opened the drawer. He stared at the small box he had tucked in the back of it last week.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, thank you, Alice,” he said absently. “Just leave them in the kitchen.”

He brushed his fingers over the box and then, finally, picked it up. It was the first time he’d looked at it since Mycroft handed it to him, though he hadn’t actually stopped thinking about it since last week.

“Sherlock, dear, come and join me for a moment.”

Sherlock pocketed the box and went into the kitchen. He sat down before his microscope and watched as Alice put away the items she had bought. He felt clear-headed and absent; for once, his mind was almost completely blank. He thought of Victor and didn’t feel a pang of guilt or pain; he thought of Stanley and felt nothing but a warm swell of joy. 

His world, it seemed, was starting to right itself.

Alice set about making them something to drink. Sherlock pulled the box out of his pocket again and opened it. The ring inside was silver and plain. It was in excellent condition, but it would need to be cleaned before - 

“Tell me about him.”

“Hm?” Sherlock looked up, pocketing the box once again. “About who, Alice?”

“About _Stanley_ , silly.” She brought over two steaming mugs - tea for her, coffee for Sherlock - and then sat down across from him at the kitchen table. Sherlock pushed his microscope out of the way so that he could properly see her face. 

“You know Stanley already,” he said with a frown. She rolled her eyes. 

“He’s been coming by for all the years I’ve lived here, yes, but that doesn’t mean anything.” She stirred her tea absently, a small smile on her lips. “I know that he’s very quiet, and very kind. I know that he’s dead _gorgeous_.”

“Careful there, Alice,” Sherlock said with a smirk. She winked at him.

“But I don’t actually _know_ him,” she finished. “So go on, then. Tell me about your man.”

“He’s not -”

“Yes, he is. You two have been together for how long now?”

It depended on how one looked at it, Sherlock supposed. Since March was probably the most accurate, given all the fits and starts they’d had along the way since the aborted December kiss. 

“Three months,” he said finally. “I suppose. But it feels like years.”

“It _has_ been years, I think,” Alice said with a tiny smile. “For all the time I’ve known him, at least. He’s had nothing but eyes for you – and you for him.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. “He was _married_ for part of that time, for God’s sake.”

“Not since I’ve been living here,” Alice pointed out. “I’ve only ever known Stanley when he was single. And you’re avoiding the question.”

She sipped her tea for a moment, one eyebrow arched elegantly at him. Sherlock sighed.

“He studied robotics systems while at university, but upon graduation joined the Met. He was transferred to Lestrade’s team fifteen years ago, which is where we met. He took over for Lestrade five years ago -”

“Stop, stop,” Alice said with a laugh, holding up a hand. “Tell me _about_ him, Sherlock.”

He blinked at her.

“I don’t understand,” he said after a moment.

“What does he like to do in his spare time?” she tried. Sherlock snorted.

“What spare time?” he asked dryly, and she rolled her eyes.

“All right, fair point. What about… books? He _must_ read.”

“He does,” Sherlock said with a nod. And then he grimaced. “He enjoys mysteries.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was. They’re _terrible_ , Alice.”

At that, she laughed out loud. “You’ve _read_ them? Oh, Sherlock. Only you would read a book solely for the purpose of being able to argue about it with someone. And what about music?”

“Don’t even get me started. His taste in music is abominable.”

“Does he dance?” Alice rested her chin on her fist. “He looks like he would be _excellent_.”

“He doesn’t make a habit out of it.” Sherlock felt an unbidden smile come to his lips. “But when he allows it - yes, he’s quite talented.”

They’d only ever danced once, and Sherlock was sure Stanley didn’t remember it. It was during one of the many parties that resulted from Lestrade’s retirement announcement and Stanley’s promotion. Sherlock had been dragged to too many pubs by John and Lestrade for one send-off or another, and had even put up with three separate parties being thrown at Baker Street. Stanley had attended all of the spontaneous events, looking just as put-upon as Sherlock felt, but he handled it with considerably more grace and tact. They had bonded over their mutual dislike of large crowds and parties, and one night Stanley had consumed enough alcohol to allow himself to be dragged out onto the dance floor at that night’s haunt.

And, three drinks later, he had hauled Sherlock out there to join him.

“There’s something about watching him let go,” Sherlock said quietly, smiling at the memory. “He’s always so careful, so _reserved_. Quiet, as you said. But when he opens up - when he laughs, when he cracks a joke, when he _stops thinking_ \- it’s a wondrous thing. I love - I love watching it.”

He swallowed, suddenly realising how much he’d revealed, and occupied himself for a moment with taking a long swallow from his coffee. It had long since gone cold, but no matter. 

Alice shook her head, that same understanding smile playing on her features. She was about to take another drink from her tea but paused, something having caught her eye.

“What’s that, dear?”

“Hm?” Sherlock looked down at his hands, and realised he’d once again taken the small box out of his pocket. He was holding it tightly in one hand, but uncurled his fist so that she could see. “Oh, nothing. My father’s ring. Mycroft gave it to me.”

“Well, that was nice of him,” Alice said with a small smile. “Must be nice to have something that reminds you of him.”

“I suppose.” Sherlock opened the box, as though looking at the ring might bring forth a memory that had long been buried. “Though I feel it’s rather a futile effort. I was too young when he died. There’s really nothing left for me _to_ remember. Just stories.”

“From your mother?”

Sherlock nodded. “She cared for him. Deeply.”

Alice touched the back of his hand, and then covered it with her own.

“And you know what that feels like, even if you don’t remember him yourself,” she said. And then she gave a content sigh. “What a lucky man you are to have had such an intense love not once, but twice in a lifetime.”

Sherlock was quiet for a long while. He turned the box over and over in his hand and, finally, held it out for her to take.

“So you think that he’d like it?” he asked quietly. She opened the box and surveyed the ring carefully.

“Sherlock,” she said, a grin splitting her features as realisation dawned, “he’s going to _love_ it.”

\----

If Stanley had his way, he would do nothing but work on the serial killer case. 

But the Yard had other ideas, especially for its Detective Inspectors. In addition to working other cases, Stanley had meetings and paperwork, and a dozen other administrative tasks that he needed to complete on a regular basis. He attended special events, too, from time to time, which Sherlock had never before paid much attention to.

That is, until one night when Stanley came over to Baker Street at half-eleven, dressed in a dinner suit and wearing an air of irritation. He stormed into the flat, ranting about hierarchies and publicity and his _bloody useless_ supervisors…

And Sherlock didn’t register a word of it, because he was too busy staring at Stanley. He looked _stunning_.

Sherlock, first and foremost, appreciated the mind. It was the first thing he noticed about another person; the first place where he saw beauty, if it was to be found at all. He never gave much thought to physical attractiveness. He could appreciate aesthetics; art and music; nature and literature. But when it came to people, he very rarely found himself stirred by physical features alone.

But he found that he was starting to appreciate the physical aspects of Stanley’s appearance almost as much as he did Stanley’s mind. More than that, Sherlock discovered that he was starting to develop _preferences_ when it came to Stanley’s appearance. Stanley looked better in dark shirts, for instance, and though he wore dark trousers well, Sherlock preferred when he dressed down to jeans on the weekends. There were few sights Sherlock found more entrancing than Stanley just after a shower, with his hair spiked and a towel secured around his waist. Stubble suited him, and Sherlock loved the feel of it against the insides of his thighs when they were in bed together.

But all of those things were surpassed by the sight of Stanley in a dinner suit – in _this_ dinner suit. It was a tailored suit that emphasized his long legs and broad shoulders, and when Stanley turned away to hang his outer coat on the back of the door, Sherlock saw that it hugged the curve of his arse nicely.

“Bloody useless, the whole lot of them,” Stanley grumbled to himself. His cheeks were flushed in irritation, his eyes were bright, and his hair was mussed from the number of times he had run his fingers through it. Sherlock swallowed hard.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound casual. It came out as more of a croak, which Stanley didn’t seem to notice. 

“Yeah, about half a dozen of them,” Stanley snarled. “Namely, a bunch of arse-nosed higher-ups who don’t seem to realise that I have better things to do than spend an evening at a fundraiser in this _ridiculous outfit_. Like, you know, solving murders and - oi!”

Sherlock grabbed his arm as Stanley moved past his chair and gave a strong tug, sending Stanley sprawling across his lap.

“Very funny, old man,” Stanley grumbled, struggling into a sitting position. He tried to get up, but Sherlock held him in place. 

“I don’t think _arse-nosed_ is a real word,” he said seriously. Stanley scowled at him.

“It is if I say it is.”

Sherlock kissed him. Stanley sat stiffly for a moment, and then finally relaxed. He kissed back, slowly at first, though when Sherlock squeezed his arse he hummed in approval and parted his lips. Sherlock moved his hand to cup Stanley through his trousers, and Stanley groaned. 

“Are you sure this is the best time?” he muttered against Sherlock’s mouth. 

“You’re here,” Sherlock murmured against the shell of Stanley’s ear, “and _gorgeous_. What better time could there be?”

Stanley hummed in appreciation as Sherlock moved his attentions to his neck. He shifted, and Sherlock was suddenly very aware of his own straining trousers. 

“Bed, then, I think,” Stanley whispered at last, and Sherlock was inclined to agree.

Something else Sherlock had discovered--it seemed as though he was discovering new things about himself every day now--was that he enjoyed undressing Stanley. He found it almost as stimulating as the act of sex itself. There was something thrilling about seeing Stanley in a well-cut outfit and knowing what was hidden underneath; not only that, but knowing that _he_ was the only one who was privileged enough to see it. He always took great care in peeling Stanley from his clothes - the anticipation of what was to come coupled with Stanley’s need tended to spike his own arousal.

He started tonight with the polished shoes and dark socks. He pulled them off, and then kissed Stanley’s ankle before moving up to his mouth again. Sherlock mouthed the curve of Stanley’s jaw while he made quick work of the bowtie and then unbuttoned the dinner jacket. Stanley sat up long enough for Sherlock to push the dinner jacket from his shoulders, and he deposited it on the floor before moving on to the braces. He slipped them off, and then unfastened Stanley’s trousers.

Stanley was aching at this point, hard and leaking, and he gave an involuntary moan of disappointment as Sherlock’s palm brushed lightly over his still-clothed erection. Sherlock slid the trousers over Stanley’s hips and tossed them over his shoulder. Stanley’s shirt followed soon after, and then he was clad in nothing but his pants and the thin sheen of sweat that now covered his chest. It was taking everything he had not to help Sherlock divest him of his clothes, but Stanley had learned quickly how Sherlock preferred to do the act.

Finally, Sherlock hooked his fingers into the waistband of Stanley’s pants and slid them down his thighs. Stanley worked them off his calves and then kicked them away. His cock lay heavy and flushed against his stomach, and he was near-panting now. He reached for Sherlock, grasping him by the lapels and pulling him closer.

“You’ve - you’ve got too many clothes -” Stanley’s sentence was cut off as Sherlock kissed him, hard enough to bruise. He grabbed Stanley’s wrists and pinned his hands on the mattress above his head. Stanley whimpered.

“I know,” Sherlock whispered. He lowered his hips to Stanley’s and gave a slow, deliberate grind. Stanley bucked against him. “I think I’ll fuck you with them on, this time.”

 

“Nice touch,” Stanley said later, when they had got their breath back and cleaned themselves off. Sherlock, completely naked now, was returning from the adjoining bathroom. He snagged his underwear from the floor and put it back on; thankfully, it had survived their session unscathed. Stanley was dressed in a clean t-shirt and pants, and when Sherlock slid into bed he molded himself to Stanley’s back and pressed his face into a fabric-clad shoulder. 

“Glad you approve,” Sherlock said dryly, for Stanley had been completely speechless--and breathless--for a long while in the wake of his powerful orgasm. When he had finally regained some control over himself, he had proceeded to strip Sherlock with fumbling hands and kiss him senseless. And, when they had both recovered sufficiently and the blood started to flow south once more, they had gone for another round together.

Sherlock couldn’t recall the last time he’d had two orgasms in so short a time. It was beyond invigorating. 

“Shirt’s probably ruined,” Stanley said apologetically. “Er… my bad.”

“I’ll get another,” Sherlock said, dismissing his concern. “Fortunately, your suit is not.”

“Damn shame.”

“I wouldn’t say that quite yet. You’ll be needing it again soon.”

It took a couple of seconds for Sherlock to fully realise what he’d said. Thankfully, Stanley didn’t appear to catch his meaning.

“God, I hope not. If they make me go to another fundraiser this month, heads are going to roll.” Stanley yawned. “Did you set the alarm?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, you’re spectacular.” Stanley was quickly fading, his words becoming little more than a mumble. “Love you.”

Sherlock tightened the arm he had around Stanley’s waist. 

“I know.”

\------

Summer that year didn’t arrive until halfway through July, when temperatures soared from what felt like springtime to highs that London hadn’t seen in years.

For all of its advanced technology, London was still at the mercy of the weather, and it wasn’t long before the extreme temperatures started wreaking havoc on the city at large. They were subjected to intermittent power outages that lasted anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours, and though the entire city never went down at once, it was still horribly inconvenient. The lack of power affected the traffic signals and the driverless transport system, and proved dangerous for those who had sought refuge from the heat in designated cooling centres. 

Sherlock and Stanley took to spending more and more of their evenings over at Stanley’s house, as he had air conditioning that Baker Street lacked. But increasing power outages soon started affecting his area of the city, and eventually it actually became more practical to spend their nights over at Baker Street. 

These evenings were frequently unpleasant, but with the right number of fans they could usually make the flat at least somewhat bearable. On the worst nights they relocated to Alice’s main room, as her flat was below Sherlock’s and therefore somewhat cooler. And when even that became impossible to stand, all three of them camped out on the floor of 221C, savouring the relief that the unoccupied basement flat offered them. 

On this August night, they were back in 221B. The day had been sweltering, but the night had cooled quickly – almost too rapidly, in fact. Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised to find that a storm front wasn’t far behind.

Stanley was asleep on the sofa, as Sherlock was up tending to his website and Stanley didn’t generally like to go to bed without him. Checkers had been sleeping at his feet earlier that night, but he had long since relocated to Alice’s flat. Much as the dog loved Stanley, his disdain for the heat overruled that affection and he had sought out more comfortable lodgings.

The flat suddenly gave what sounded like a tremendous groan, and before Sherlock could fully process what was going on, the lights went out. His laptop dimmed as its charger cut out, and the television shut off with an audible _snap_ , which roused Stanley.

“The hell?” he muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes and sitting up. He was no more than a silhouette sitting on the sofa in the darkened flat. “Jesus. This old building.”

“It’s not the building,” Sherlock said. He got up from his chair and navigated over to the window. He had the flat memorized, mess and all, but in the dark his depth perception was thrown off and he still managed to bump his knee on a stack of books. When he finally reached the window, he pushed aside the curtains. “It’s the entire city. We’ve gone dark.”

Stanley appeared at his elbow, and Sherlock stepped aside so that he could see as well. All of London, it seemed, had gone dark. A few essential buildings had backup generators that were seemingly unaffected, but they were few and far between. The majority of the city was a vast silhouette against the sparkling midnight sky.

The night was as black as spilled ink, Sherlock thought, and his breath caught as he realised how impenetrable the darkness was. He couldn’t recall the last time he had experienced a night as deep as this. There was no true night in London. The sun disappeared from the sky every day, yes, but with the blaze of city lights and the myriad cars it was of no consequence. London shone brightly during the day and glowed at night, and there was never any respite from it.

“You can see the stars,” Stanley said softly. “Look at that. When’s the last time any of us saw the stars for real?”

“That case we worked two years ago out in Norfolk,” Sherlock answered quietly. “Do you remember?”

He heard more than he felt Stanley’s sly smirk.

“‘Course I remember that one. How could I forget seeing you in that getup? Those jeans were so tight, I think I spent most of my time trying to figure out how you were able to even _walk_ , let alone saunter like that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You should have spent more time focusing on the case and less time staring at my arse.”

“It’s a very nice arse, to be fair. You can’t exactly blame me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and knocked his shoulder gently against Stanley’s.

“Come on. You can see the stars better from the roof.”

 

Sherlock had truly never seen a night like this one, not even during the brief bouts of time throughout his life that he had spent out in the country.

The stars were scattered like jewels across the vast stretch of black. A thick band of them arced across the sky, from horizon to horizon, coloured by faint patches of yellows and oranges.

“That’s our galaxy,” Sherlock said unnecessarily, gesturing to the band. “That’s home.”

“I thought you had no use for information about the solar system,” Stanley teased. 

“I don’t,” Sherlock sighed. “But I can appreciate beauty.”

He fixed Stanley with a pointed look. “As you should well know.”

In the darkness, he couldn’t see if Stanley flushed, but he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

“You’re just – oh!” Stanley knocked the back of his hand against Sherlock’s chest, his eyes fixed on the sky once again. “Did you see that?”

A tiny pinprick of light had streaked across the sky. It was followed by second, and then a third, and in the space of half a minute there were at least thirty more.

“Meteor shower,” Sherlock said finally. He dredged up a scrap of information from the astronomy knowledge he had mostly deleted and added, “Ah – it must be the Perseids. They’re an annual occurrence.”

“What a night,” Stanley said, his voice rough as gravel. “Incredible.”

Sherlock turned to look at him. Stanley was still looking at the sky, and the bright moonlight playing off the sharp angles and smooth planes of his face. He appeared elegant and serene, and wonder shone in his dark eyes.

There would never be a night like this again.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. He could stare at Stanley forever, if given the chance.

But then Stanley returned his gaze to Earth, and the spell was broken.

“Hell, what a mess,” Stanley muttered as he stared down at the near-impassable roads below. The city-wide power outage had caused chaos on the streets, as all traffic signals were out and that only added to the general distraction and confusion. The roads were backed up horribly.

“You could stay,” Sherlock offered quietly.

“Might have to, at that,” Stanley sighed. He pulled a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket.

“Something wrong with staying?”

“God, no,” Stanley said. He lit two cigarettes and then passed one to Sherlock. “But what is that - three nights, now? Four? First because of the temperature, then because of the power outages at my own place. Now this. At some point I need to leave you to have your space.”

Sherlock took a long pull on his cigarette, and sighed the smoke out through his nose.

“No,” he said finally. “I don’t think you do need to leave, actually.”

Stanley snorted.

“Don’t give me that. You know as well as I that you’d be crawling the walls if you were stuck living with someone for more than a week.”

His words were light, but a hollow feeling dug its way into the pit of Sherlock’s stomach.

_ He doesn’t want me to move in, John. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he? _

“If it were anyone other than you, yes,” Sherlock said softly. “But I rather think you should know by now, Stanley, that you are the exception to everything I know about myself.”

Victor had been an extension of Sherlock; a mirror image that reflected only the very best of Sherlock’s own self. But Stanley was another matter entirely. He was everything that Sherlock wasn’t, everything that he _couldn’t_ be, and that made him beautiful.

Sherlock never wanted to be without him.

“What is it you’re trying to say, old man?” Stanley asked quietly. His words were sombre. Evidently, he realised that now this was not just another nighttime conversation.

Sherlock took a long draw on his cigarette to save himself having to answer right away. He breathed out, letting out a stream of smoke, and flicked ash onto the ground.

“You’re astonishing,” he said finally. “You’re brilliant, and you fascinate me. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re my best friend, Stanley. And I think – I’d quite like – oh, hell.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Stanley said gently, a note of awe in his voice, “you’re _stammering.”_

Sherlock flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of his shoe. He turned to Stanley.

“I’d very much like you to stay,” he said steadily, his voice forcibly calm. “If that’s agreeable to you.”

“Stay,” Stanley repeated quietly.

“Yes.”

Stanley reached out and traced the line of his jaw, his fingertips catching on Sherlock’s stubble. Sherlock wasn’t just talking about tonight, and Stanley knew that.

“For how long?” he asked softly. His fingers stuttered over Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock could feel the tremors that shuddered through them.

“Until the end of my days,” Sherlock said quietly. He took the hand and held it in his own, lacing their fingers together. “Until the end of yours. Until the summer’s out. Until –” And here the words caught in his throat, and he had to force them out, “– Until the night is gone. I’m yours, for however long you’ll have me.”

And because it was Stanley--his unwavering companion, the man who infuriated him like nothing else and who understood him better than anyone else on the planet--because it was _Stanley_ , he understood that those words were as close to convention as Sherlock was willing to get; that standing on a balcony in the middle of the night with Stanley’s hand in his own was as good as getting on bended knee.

“Yes. You idiot,” Stanley added as an afterthought. And then his face broke into a glorious smile, one that showed a hint of teeth; a smile that only Sherlock was privileged enough to see. “ _Yes_ , I’ll marry you.”


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock marked one year since the beginning of the case quietly. 

In fact, he might not have remembered it at all if he hadn’t been sorting through some of his old notes one afternoon and caught sight of a card on which he’d scrawled _10 August 2027 – unidentified woman from SH._

What an interesting thing a year was. There had been so many changes in his own life, and yet very little that could be said about the case that started it all. It seemed as though they had only added to the mystery rather than shed any light on it.

But Sherlock did his best to remember the good, and wished that Stanley could do the same. The case was horrid, the crimes were unspeakable, and yet… he had Stanley now. 

He would have Stanley forever. 

Stanley was twenty minutes late to lunch on an afternoon in mid-August, but Sherlock took one look at his face and wisely didn’t comment on it. 

“Bad day,” Stanley eventually offered when they were halfway through their salads. “Children, this time.”

“Do you have a lead?”

Stanley nodded. It wasn’t much of a comfort, but it was something. Sherlock pressed his leg against Stanley’s under the table, and Stanley gave him a thin smile. They both knew that the sooner this latest case could be closed, the sooner Stanley could get back to the serial killer.

“I heard from an agent today,” Sherlock said, steering them on to safer territory. “They’re interested in a book.”

“Of - what? Your cases?”

Sherlock nodded. “They’re interested in hearing about some of the more famous ones from my point of view. And, of course, there are ones I’ve solved since John and Lestrade moved away that John never got the chance to write about.”

Stanley chewed in contemplation for a moment. “Literary agents don’t normally reach out like that.”

“No.”

“They must really be interested. Do you think you’ll do it?”

“I -”

Sherlock was interrupted by Angelo.

“Mr Holmes!” he exclaimed, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “It has been too long!”

Sherlock frowned. “We ate here two weeks ago, Angelo.”

“And your fiancé!” Angelo turned around and engulfed Stanley in what appeared to be a bone-crushing hug. Stanley shot Sherlock an alarmed look over Angelo’s shoulder.

“Angelo, who did you hear that from?”

“Your landlady, of course!” Angelo said happily, releasing Stanley. “She said it happened last week! When were you going to tell me? Imagine that - Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, finally conquering one of life’s biggest mysteries - _love_.”

Stanley choked on his water and hid his chortle behind his napkin.

“Angelo, really, we’d rather not -” Sherlock started in an undertone, casting a furtive glance around the room. The restaurant was mostly empty at this late lunch hour, but the patrons present were staring openly at them.

“Here, have some wine,” Angelo said, cheerfully plucking a bottle from the hands of one of his wait staff. “On the house!”

“I - well - we’d -”

“Thank you, Angelo,” Stanley said finally, stepping in smoothly and saving a flustered Sherlock. “That’s very thoughtful.”

“Have you decided on a date?”

Stanley shot a glance at Sherlock, who gave a tiny nod. “We’ve been talking about sometime in the winter.”

“So soon!”

Stanley couldn’t seem to help the smile that split his face. “No. Not soon enough.”

They chatted amiably for a few moments longer before Angelo finally moved away to check on the other diners. Stanley touched Sherlock’s hand.

“You all right, old man?” he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, and then he laughed. 

“All this fuss,” he said in wonder. He glanced at the wine and nodded his approval. “That’s a good year.”

“It will have to wait,” Stanley said regretfully. “I’m due back at the Yard soon. Save it for dinner?”

“I look forward to it.” Sherlock returned to his meal. “I’m afraid the slip was mine.”

“Oh, Alice would have figured it out anyway. Besides, I already told my parents.” Stanley chewed for a moment. “We weren’t keeping it a secret, were we?”

Sherlock shrugged. “No. But I didn’t make it a point to advertise it.”

“You at least told John and Lestrade, I hope.”

Sherlock scowled. “John guessed.”

“Gosh, I wonder who he picked that up from.”

“Shut up.”

Stanley smirked. “We should probably tell the others, then. Sally’s going to kill me.”

“Not if she kills me first. I’ll tell Molly if you tell Dimmock.”

“She’ll hear it from him first, seeing as they’re _married_ , smartarse.”

“Gregson’s going to have a heart attack.” Sherlock thought for a moment. “Guerra probably won’t, though.”

“I think he saw it coming before we did.” A thought appeared to occur to Stanley. “You don’t think Mycroft’s going to kidnap me, do you?”

“It’s always a possibility,” Sherlock said, just to see Stanley pale. Then he flashed a quick smile. “No, he won’t. If he hasn’t done it by now, you have nothing to worry about. He set up a _meeting_ with you, for God’s sake. He respects you, Stanley.”

“God knows why.” Stanley folded his napkin, set it on the table, and then pulled out his phone. “Right, we should probably pick a date for this, shouldn’t we?”

Sherlock’s answer was immediate. “December twenty-seventh.”

Stanley blinked at him. “Well, that was quick. Dare I ask why?”

“That was the date of the Christmas party.”

Stanley laughed. “And you want to commemorate the kiss that never happened? What does that signify - a lifetime of interruptions by phone calls?”

Sherlock snorted, but quickly sobered.

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s the date I realised I wanted nothing more than to kiss my closest friend. I had always known that I wanted you in my life, but it wasn’t until then that I realised it was because I had fallen for you.”

Stanley swallowed visibly. 

“Right, then,” he said quietly. “December twenty-seventh it is.”

\----

They were in bed together one evening, Stanley on his front with his head resting on pillowed arms while Sherlock kissed beads of cooling sweat from between his shoulder blades. 

“We’re keeping this bed,” Stanley said drowsily. “I don’t care about which home we live in or whose furniture gets discarded, but we are _definitely_ keeping this bed.”

“Agreed.” Sherlock rested a cheek on the back of Stanley’s shoulder and draped an arm across his back. “Talking of that, where _would_ you like to live?”

Stanley gave a slow shrug. “Hadn’t thought much about it, to be honest. I think here. The Great Detective belongs in 221B. That’s what all the stories say.”

“Is it?” Sherlock turned his head and pressed his lips to salty skin. “Do the stories also talk about Henry the poison dart frog, noble inhabitant of 221B?”

Stanley snorted. “I suppose not. They must have missed that bit.”

“Hm. And what about the _dashing_ Inspector Hopkins, as clever as he is brilliant?”

“ _Dashing_ , am I?” Stanley said, sounding amused. He yawned, and then added, “I suppose I like that better than John’s early descriptions of me. I sound rather over-eager.”

“It was endearing,” Sherlock assured, and Stanley snorted. He twisted his head around for a kiss, and then rolled onto his back so that Sherlock could lie on top of him. He was just reaching for the waistband of Stanley’s pants when a mobile went off, and Stanley groaned when he recognised his ring tone. Sherlock grabbed the device off the bedside table and tossed it to him.

“Hopkins,” Stanley answered gruffly. Sherlock couldn’t make out the caller’s words, but it turned out he didn’t have to. At once, Stanley’s eyes snapped open and he sat up abruptly. “I’m on my way. Wake the rest of the team; call them in.”

“Another?” Sherlock asked, sitting up as Stanley got out of bed and started rooting through the wardrobe for clothes.

“Almost,” he said. 

“Almost?”

“She’s not dead yet,” Stanley said briskly. “She’s just been abducted. Come on, get dressed. We need to go.”

 

The newest victim was named Margaret Hayes, and by the time they got to the Yard, two hours had passed since her initial disappearance. That meant that, for the first time, they were working against a clock. She was going to turn up dead in forty-six hours, giving them less than two days to track down where she might have been taken – and who might have done this.

“How do we know this is connected to the serial killer?” Sherlock asked when Stanley’s team had finally assembled. He was addressing Donovan, who had made the initial call to Stanley.

“We don’t,” she said. “But given the fact that everyone’s sensitive about missing people right now, our serial killer was the first thing that came to mind, and we can’t exactly _disprove_ it. This latest victim was with a companion at the park. When she didn’t return from the toilets, her absence was noticed immediately. We were called in at once.”

“He only kidnaps and murders _unknown_ victims,” Sherlock said. Donovan shrugged.

“He also doesn’t leave evidence behind – except when he does.” She glanced at Stanley. “We have no reason right now to believe it’s not him.”

“He might be doing this on purpose,” Stanley said. “We’re no longer keeping quiet about what we know, so now he’s not bothering to keep his abductions a secret.”

“That’s risky,” Sherlock pointed out. “Almost too much so.”

“He might be tired of playing it safe. It only got him so far.” Stanley looked at Donovan. “Where is her companion right now?”

“At home.”

“Right. I’m going to be sending two of you over there to interview her,” Stanley said. “I want to know every detail about everyone she might have seen at the park. We need to figure out where he might have taken her. Every detail is important. The rest of you – start going over security footage taken from the park tonight. Maybe our serial killer isn’t quite as clever as he would have us believe.”

Sherlock approached him as the rest of the team set about their assigned tasks. 

“Any thoughts?” Stanley asked in an undertone. Sherlock shook his head.

“I don’t think I can offer anything more than what has already been said. You have a point – he might be doing this on purpose, now. Either that, or he’s just so desperate for a kill that he abducted the first person who gave him a window of opportunity, unknown or not.” Sherlock pushed his hands into his pockets. “Look, until there’s something new, I don’t think I’ll be of much use to you.”

Stanley nodded. “I understand. Go home, get some rest. I’ll call you the moment we have anything that you can analyze. And once they’re done with the initial interview of the victim’s friend, I might send you over for a second round of questioning. Just to be sure we got everything from her that we can.”

Sherlock nodded and, when the room had cleared, leaned in to give Stanley a brief kiss.

“Be safe,” he said softly. “I mean it.”

“I will be.”

Sherlock called Mycroft anyway on his way home from the Yard, and he secured his brother’s reassurances that Stanley’s security team was in place, and that they had noticed nothing unusual.

“Are you expecting something to happen, brother dear?” Mycroft sounded almost amused. Sherlock swallowed back bitter irritation. 

"There are too many variables in this case. I have no idea what to expect,” he said shortly.

“Rest assured, Stanley is safe,” Mycroft said, almost gently. “I wouldn’t allow any harm to come to my future brother-in-law.”

Sherlock couldn’t think of what to say to that, and he rang off without offering a goodbye.

Stanley was in contact with him three hours later. Sherlock hadn’t gone to bed as instructed, but was going over the evidence from the earliest victims – the ones who hadn’t been unknowns. He was sitting in the kitchen when the vid screen lit up, and for once he answered the video call without hesitation.

“We’ve got a recording of the interview with the victim’s friend,” Stanley said. He was sitting at the desk in his office, his tie and jacket removed. He had unbuttoned the first button of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. “I’m sending it over to you. Let me know if you can deduce anything from her answers. We don’t think they’re of any use – she didn’t actually see anything happen – but you might have a different opinion.”

“I’ll look at it right away,” Sherlock assured. “Where is she right now? I may need to ask her some additional questions.”

“She’s at home with an officer standing watch.” Stanley shook his head. “She’s spooked, and I can’t say I blame her.”

“We don’t even know that this is the serial killer,” Sherlock tried to reassure.

“For the moment, we’re operating as though it is,” Stanley said firmly. 

Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to budge on that point, so he decided to move on. “Will you be home tonight?”

Stanley shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ll kip on the sofa here if I need to; otherwise, I’ll crash at my house for a bit. It’s closer to the Yard. But the clock’s ticking on this one, Sherlock. I probably won’t get the chance.”

“I know.” Sherlock reached for his glasses, the ones he hated to wear. “Send the video over. I’ll be in touch.”

Margaret Hayes’ friend was named Stephanie Finn. She was a meek, unassuming woman of medium height and medium build. Her dirty-blonde hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and her eyes were bloodshot from the amount of crying that she’d done. Stanley, unfortunately, was right – she hadn’t seen anything actually happen, and so her testimony was of little use, especially given the fact that this was a deviation from the serial killer’s norm. They had nothing to compare this to, and so couldn’t say for certain what was useful and what was not. 

“You didn’t find anything,” Stanley said when Sherlock called him later.

“How did you know?”

“If you had, you would have come all the way over here just to tell me.”

Sherlock snorted. “You have a point. Anything?”

“Nothing new,” Stanley said irritably.

“Did you post officers at the kill site?” Sherlock asked. “The last time, he waited until you had left that scene before making his next kill.”

“I thought of that already,” Stanley said. “I’ve got an entire team over there. They haven’t seen anything.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock amended. 

“If we don’t figure something out soon, I think Guerra’s going to try to figure out a way to pin the whole thing on me,” Stanley muttered. “The man’s desperate for a break in the case. His supervisors are one heartbeat away from having an aneurysm over this, and they’re taking it out on him.”

“Do you want me to come down?’

“What, so we can both wait for no news together?” Sherlock could almost hear Stanley shaking his head. “No. Thanks, though.”

“A potential new case came through the website today,” Sherlock said. “I’ll be working on that here for a while.”

It was his way of saying, _I’ll be here if you need me_.

Stanley gave a soft huff of bitter laughter. “Life goes on, right?”

“She is not the only woman suffering in London today,” Sherlock pointed out, hoping that his words would be soothing. 

“That doesn’t really help, but I appreciate the effort.” Stanley sighed. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call again if we have any new information for you to look over.”

Sherlock went over to the nearest computer interface and printed off the grainy images of the mysterious man from McCormack Industries, the one whose visage had been captured on a few seconds of security footage and who had yet to be identified. Sherlock glared at the image for several seconds as he held it in his hands. He hoped that this latest victim would be found in time, but probably for different reasons than Stanley did. He had no reason to wish harm on her, of course, but his reasons for wanting her alive were more practical than Stanley's. Sherlock knew that, if she was found alive, she would be the sole living eye-witness in this whole case, and the only person on the planet who had any idea of who her abductor might be.

This made her imminently valuable, and her survival was of the utmost importance.

Sherlock took the grainy photograph to a nearby alley that he knew Bo frequented during the evenings when the weather was still decent, and he handed it to the befuddled man. 

“Circulate that among the rest of the network,” he instructed. “I know it’s not much, but I’ll need anything you can tell me about it.”

“Not promising anything,” Bo said, looking at the image sadly. Sherlock pressed a handful of money into his hands anyway.

“I know. Do your best.”

It was his only option.

Sherlock texted Stanley when he got back to the flat, and then he swam to bed. He’d intended to wait up for a reply, but his mind had other ideas. He had been awake since the middle of last night, at this point, and his body shut down of its own accord. He woke with the dawn, cotton in his mouth and his bladder uncomfortably full, only to find that his phone had been silent for the six hours he had been unconscious.

He called Stanley this time and left a curt message. He then glared at the phone for a few minutes after, but it was stubbornly quiet, and so Sherlock finally set it aside.

Checkers came upstairs for a visit later that morning, and he watched Sherlock from the sofa, his head resting on his paws and his golden eyes tracking the progress of each stage of Sherlock’s experiments. The only thing that interrupted the silence was a phone call from Donovan, but Sherlock ignored it. She wasn’t the police officer he was looking to talk to.

Evidently, however, Donovan had other ideas, because she called three more times after that. Finally, on the fourth attempt, Sherlock answered the phone out of pure irritation.

“Outside,” she snapped before he could say anything. “Right now. I’m going to be there in a minute, and you’re getting in the car.”

She hung up before he could answer, and Sherlock realised that the only way he was going to get any answers was if he followed her instructions.

_ Damn. _

Donovan was already waiting impatiently in the idling car when Sherlock came outside.

“What’s going on?” Sherlock demanded as he slid into the car. Donovan peeled away and forced her way into the heavy morning traffic.

“Hopkins is missing,” she said without preamble. Sherlock’s heart stumbled in his chest.

“ _What?”_ he hissed. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely, unless you’ve been hiding him,” she said dryly. “When did you last see him?”

“The last I saw of him was at yesterday’s meeting. He wouldn’t have been staying here, not with the newest developments to the case.” Sherlock blew out a sharp breath between his teeth. “We spoke yesterday afternoon, but I haven’t heard anything since.”

Donovan nodded to herself.

“I sent him home at two for a few hours of sleep,” she said. “He couldn’t have had more than three or four, if he got any at all. He was supposed to be back in the office by seven. When he didn’t show up, I sent someone ‘round to check on him. His place was a mess--there were obvious signs of a break-in and a struggle.”

“Is it related to -”

“Our current case?” She shook her head. “Hell if I know. But it’s suspicious timing. This is the only major case that the team is working at the moment, as everything else was set aside as soon as news of this abduction came through. So, yeah, it's probably related.”

Sherlock went quiet for a moment, doing the mental calculation. At worst, Stanley had been gone for eight hours now – that was if he was abducted immediately after leaving the Yard. It meant that they had only about forty hours to find him before he ended up like all the others. 

He swallowed hard then, because he knew with intimate detail what the victims suffered at the hands of their captor. One year of living with this case had seared those facts into his mind, and he knew them all too well. Stanley had been drugged at this point; he might have even suffered a few blows. They had no timeline for anything beyond the time of death, so Sherlock had no idea when the rest of the torture would occur – sexual assault included. But it would be coming.

“There’s more,” Sherlock prompted at last, for Donovan had picked him up for a reason. She nodded. “You’ve found something.”  
                     
“We found traces of dirt on the carpet in Hopkins’ main room, tracked in by someone who wore shoes some sizes too big for the Inspector. When we tested it, we managed to match it to the Brickwell Shipyards.”

Sherlock frowned. The Brickwell Shipyards had manufactured low-Earth orbit craft for both shipping companies and the private consumer, and they had operated on the east side of London for nearly ten years prior to going out of business in 2025. As far as he was aware, the entire complex had been empty these past three years.

“I suppose it’s a convenient spot for a murder,” he admitted as last, ignoring the sharp look Donovan shot him before returning her eyes to the road. “He could easily have set up shop in one of the empty shipping containers. No one would hear his victims that way. But... it doesn’t make much sense. Nothing prior to this has hinted at even a connection to the shipyards. And why kidnap Stanley? That would only make us more determined to find him.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Donovan agreed. She cast a sidelong glance at him. “But at this point, do you particularly care?”

Sherlock didn’t even hesitate.

“No.”


	21. Chapter 21

The Brickwell Shipyards were majestic even in disuse, and the fact that they had been abandoned for years was not readily apparent. They weathered the neglect well, and anyone unfamiliar with the area would have sworn that they were still in business.

The vast complex was unguarded, and the massive gate that used to guard it from the outside world was left standing open. A paved road extended in front of them for nearly half a kilometer, and massive shipping containers lined both sides of it. Their cargo had long ago been removed; now only the shells remained. Each one was as large as a small warehouse.

“It will take hours to search all of these containers,” Donovan said as they pulled up alongside two other police cars from the Yard. The rest of Stanley’s team had already arrived. “And he doesn’t have hours.”

“Not in this heat,” Sherlock agreed, a knot sitting uncomfortably in his stomach at the thought. It was already late morning, and the day was promising to be a blistering one. As it was, the small of his back was already damp, and a thin sheen of sweat had broken out across his forehead. If Stanley was in one of these containers, it was already dangerously hot inside.

But then something clawed at the back of his mind, an unsettling, persistent feeling that none of this was right. It didn’t make _sense_. For a man who had eluded the police and attention for more than twenty years, why leave so much evidence behind? The DNA on one victim, the clumsy break-in at Stanley’s house, the boot print, the dirt that led them here in the first place...

“This isn’t right,” Sherlock muttered, turning over the facts in his mind.

“How so?” Donovan demanded.

“They’re not here.” The realisation slammed into him like a ton of bricks. Oh, he had been so _stupid_. “Sally, they’re not here! The killer and Margaret at least – he wouldn’t have brought her here.”

“ _What?”_ Donovan whirled on him, her eyes accusing, as though he had known this all along and had simply been waiting for the perfect opportunity to make his reveal. Her fears weren’t unfounded, though this time they were untrue.

“He was getting careless with his kills,” Sherlock said with a slowly-dawning horror. “Twenty years of killing, and he was getting _careless_. Damn it!”

“What do you mean?” Donovan snapped.

“He was making _mistakes,_ Sally, and not entirely on purpose. Not at first, at least. His image getting captured on a camera, leaving behind the DNA, the trioxipate that was left on the bottom of Sarah Burlough’s foot, us finding the kill room… those were mistakes!”

“So?”

“So he was slipping up, and he _knew_ it,” Sherlock said quietly. “Twenty years, Sally. He’s getting _old_. That’s why he made those mistakes. And lately he’s been getting desperate. He needs this; he needs these killings. It’s an outlet; I’ve said it before. But we were catching on to him because he was slipping up, and as a result he was having difficulty satisfying his needs. He got lucky, with that last victim. Your supervisors decided to try to close the case, and the moment the kill site was free, he made his move. But he must have known that we would close off the room immediately after that.”

“So he kidnapped a woman in broad daylight as a result?” Donovan sounded incredulous. “In what world does _that_ make sense? You said he didn’t want to get caught!”

“He doesn’t want the attention; there’s a difference,” Sherlock said briskly. “He’s been at this for twenty years, Sally. He’s aged. He’s going to make more mistakes, and he knows it. Someday, he’s going to make that last, fatal mistake. So instead of that happening, he’s ready to go out on his terms. This time around, he’s done everything on purpose. He’s kidnapped a known woman, knowing that eventually we’ll find her – and eventually we’ll discover who he is.”

“But why kidnap the Inspector, too?” Donovan demanded. 

“The killer left evidence of his presence in Stanley’s home – the dirt and the boot print. _On purpose,”_ Sherlock said vehemently. “He knew we would find it, make the connection to him, and then follow the dirt sample out here. He _wanted_ us out here!”

“But why?” Donovan asked breathlessly, half an eye on her watch. They were running out of time. “What does all of that mean?”

“The killer knows that someday he’s going to get caught, so he’s going to go out with a bang. He’s going to have his _fun_ with Margaret, he’s going to kill her, and the evidence he chooses to leave behind on her body will lead us to him. He knows that. This is his last chance to indulge in his desires, so he’s going to do it properly. That means the killer and the girl are elsewhere, so he can have his time with her,” Sherlock snarled in frustration. “But Stanley is here, somewhere. He’s – Sally, he must be a _distraction_. The killer lured us off his trail, sent us on this wild chase so that he could get away with his victim. He wants to have his fun with her without us in the way. We know Margaret’s missing, and he knows we’ll be looking for her. He wants us to find her—find _him_ —eventually, but not right away. So Stanley… is a _distraction_.”

“So what do we do?” Smith demanded.

Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you dare, Holmes,” Donovan said angrily. “No. Don’t you dare. You’ve come this far. _Think._ Why did he go so far out of his way to draw us off his trail? Why the distraction?”

Sherlock stared at her.

“Because the killer _needs this_ ,” he said softly. “He never left London because these are his hunting grounds… And because his kill site is here. The only problem is, _we_ have his kill room. This final crime has to be perfect, and you already said yourself that the kill room is the most important part of this. He _needs_ to have it, or there’s no crime at all. God, Sally – for the past twenty-four hours, he’s been trying to figure out a way to gain access to that room. And thanks to Stanley, he has it. He’s gone back to McCormack Industries with Margaret Hayes.”

“Because it’s accessible to him now since all the teams were pulled out when the word of a kidnapped Detective Inspector came through.” Donovan’s eyes widened in horror. She signaled for her people to go, and they ran for their cars. “My God, he _played_ us.”

“We’ll deal with that later. _Go_.”

She shook her head.

“No. You need me. Hopkins has barely a chance in hell in getting out of here alive. I won’t let that chance diminish further.”

“Listen,” Sherlock said, grabbing her arm, “if that woman dies because of this delay, he will never forgive you. If she dies because you chose to save him over her, he will _never_ forgive you. You know it as well as I. _Go._ I’m no more use to you, but I _will_ find Stanley.”

Donovan stared at him for a moment, and then gave a quick nod.

“I’ll leave you the one car and call for some backup,” she said over her shoulder as she turned and jogged away. But Sherlock knew as well as she did that he couldn’t afford to wait for them to arrive.

And neither could Stanley.

Sherlock clamped his eyes shut, the darkness flaring red as the bright sun beat down upon his face. Distantly, he heard the squeal of tyres as the two other cars sped away. He tried not to pay them any mind.

_ Think _ .

Stanley wasn’t a target, he was just a distraction. The killer wasn’t interested in seeking revenge or making a point. He had no interest in Stanley, and no interest at all in publicity. He just wanted to be left alone to indulge in his perverse desires one last time, and Stanley was a means to that end.

Which meant that Stanley was being kept somewhere that had been easily accessible to the killer, given the timeline. The killer must have realised that the only way to free up his kill room was to create an even bigger crisis. He took the opportunity to abduct Stanley, and then would have needed to stash him somewhere that was quick and easy to access. Somewhere that would have taken Stanley’s team ages to find, but also somewhere that was fairly easy to get at so that he could quickly get away with Margaret.

Sherlock spun on his heel and jogged over to the vehicle Sally had left behind. He jammed it into reverse and sped off towards the other end of the complex.

Years ago, King’s College had set up a satellite facility on the grounds of the Brickwell Shipyards, and the students working in the Robotics Research Centre had used it for their research. They worked in conjunction with the Shipyards, and built robots for their use or developed new technology that could be used on the low-Earth-orbit craft that the Shipyards manufactured. The facility had been abandoned along with the Shipyards, but while the large shipping containers had been tightly sealed and locked upon the Shipyards’ closure, the robotics building had no locks, and no protection from people accessing it. In recent years, vandals had looted everything from inside, going so far as to pry up the bolts that had secured the long lab tables to the floor and carrying them off.

The satellite facility no longer had a name, as its sign had been removed when the college pulled out, but apart from that it appeared as though it could still be in use today, as was true of the rest of the complex. It was a long, narrow brick building, and the closest door was a heavy metal one that would not have been out of place on one of the shipping containers or a warehouse.

Sherlock parked the car haphazardly next to the building and bolted for the warehouse door. It had been closed, and Sherlock couldn’t tell if this was done recently or had been that way for a while. He had no clue of Stanley was in there, or if his conclusions were correct.

His idea was flimsy at best, and it was Stanley’s only hope.

Sherlock threw his entire weight against the door, blood pounding in his ears, muscles straining tight enough to snap -

\- And it gave way.

The door gave a tremendous groan and then slowly began to slide aside, giving an ear-shattering squeal as it did so. Sherlock winced in pain, but continued to push until the opening was large enough for him to slip through.

It took his eyes some moments to adjust to the near-total darkness inside the facility, but once they did, he could make out the faint outline of a man sitting on a chair in the center of the room.

“Stanley?” he tried.

There was no response. Sherlock grabbed the small torch from his belt and turned the thin beam of light it emitted on the man’s face.

Stanley’s face was so battered, it took Sherlock some seconds to pick out his recognizable features. For a moment, he was convinced that this must be a stranger; another unfortunate victim. But the man’s nose was as prominent as Stanley’s, and his faded grey t-shirt had an Arsenal logo in the corner--a shirt Sherlock recognised from the nights they had spent together. And then the man gave a soft groan and cracked open an eye, and when the grey gaze met his own Sherlock felt the last of his doubts flee. They were replaced immediately by cold, unforgiving anger.

It was clear that Stanley had been ambushed before he had a chance to get ready for work that day. He was dressed in jeans and his sleep shirt, and his feet were bare. Blood caked his face from a gash just above his left eyebrow. Though it had long since stopped bleeding, the skin was split along half of his forehead and blood had slid down the left side of his face and neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. His arms were bound behind him, while his ankles had been secured together with a thick rope.

The light grey of Stanley’s t-shirt had darkened to the colour of slate; in the oppressive heat of the room, sweat had soaked through all his garments and dripped from the ends of his hair, which hung limply in his eyes. He was breathing heavily, great gasping breaths, and when Sherlock reached out for him, he hissed, “ _Don’t.”_

Sherlock jerked his hand back, startled, and Stanley grunted, “Leg.”

Sherlock turned the torch on Stanley’s legs and saw immediately what Stanley had been trying to warn him of. Two bullets had been put through Stanley’s left thigh. The wounds had been tied off with a tourniquet. It was obvious that the killer didn’t intend to mortally wound Stanley; he only meant to immobilize him. Nonetheless, Stanley’s jeans were sodden with blood and his face was pinched with pain, and Sherlock felt as though he stepped out into thin air as his stomach dropped.

_ Not again, not  _ again...

“Margaret,” Stanley whispered and Sherlock sank to his knees at his side, wondering if there was a way he could move Stanley without causing him too much pain. It didn’t seem likely.

“We found her already,” Sherlock lied briskly, pulling out a penknife and severing Stanley’s bonds. “Look at me.”

Stanley lifted dull eyes from the bullet wounds in his leg and stared at Sherlock.

“Shit,” was all he said.

“I’ve got you,” Sherlock said in a low voice. Stanley sagged, slipping from the chair as the blood loss rapidly weakened him, and Sherlock caught him.

“Easy,” he murmured, easing Stanley into a sitting position on the floor before turning his attention to Stanley’s injuries. He ran quick, exploratory hands over Stanley’s chest and torso, feeling for additional wounds. The blade of a knife had bit into his side, opening the skin like a smile, and blood still flowed freely from that wound. Distantly, Sherlock wondered where he had put his phone, and then realised that the car he had borrowed from Donovan was the only one in the complex. When help arrived, it wouldn’t be difficult to find them.

He needed to focus on Stanley.

Stanley’s strength was quickly leaving him, and he leaned forward, gravitating automatically toward Sherlock. Sherlock cupped Stanley’s face with one blood-soaked hand and forced their eyes to meet.

‘I’ve got you,” he said quietly. His hands were beginning to tremble, and he hoped that Stanley couldn’t feel it. “I promise. Do you hear me? But Stanley, you need to stay awake.”

“I _am_ awake,” Stanley grunted, but his voice was weak and his eyelids kept fluttering. Sherlock stripped down to his plain cotton tee and began methodically shredding his shirt. He pressed the makeshift bandages against the gash in Stanley’ side.

“ _Fuck,”_ Stanley hissed. He tried to shove Sherlock’s hand away, but Sherlock held on fast, sinking teeth into his lower lip at Stanley’s yelp of pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered breathlessly, the words tumbling over one another in his haste to get them out. “I know, it hurts. But we must stop the bleeding, Stanley, or you’ll never -”

Sherlock cut himself off, biting the inside of his cheek in order to forcibly stop the words. Stanley looked at him, the sliver of grey around his pupils contrasting sharply with the streaks of sweat and grime on his face. Mutely, he reached for Sherlock’s free hand and then brought it to rest over the wound, pressing down with what little strength remained in him. Sherlock leaned his weight into it, Stanley’s hand resting on both of his and Stanley’s blood flowing, hot and sticky, between his fingers.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stanley hissed, his words strangled but fierce all the same. He bit back a pained groan and sought blindly for purchase, finally closing a hand around Sherlock’s elbow and holding on tight. Their eyes met again, and Sherlock didn’t dare to look away. Stanley was staring at him, staring _into_ him, as though Sherlock himself held the last of his strength; the last of his fight. A thin film of blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, and then burst.

Sherlock’s heart knocked painfully against his ribcage, and he swallowed hard. From somewhere in the distance, he heard the faint wail of sirens, and tried to tell himself that it was all right; reinforcements were nearly there. They would see the car outside the warehouse; they would know to come here immediately.

It was going to be fine. It _had_ to be fine.

He brushed a sweat-damp strand of hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand. Stanley was barely conscious now, though his fingers twitched on top of Sherlock’s hand every now and again. Sherlock wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling Stanley against his side, bearing the weight of his sagging form and trying to ignore the memory of holding Victor just like this all those years ago, trying to staunch the bleeding of another nearly-fatal wound.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against Stanley’s sweaty forehead, tasting salt on his lips. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I know.” Stanley turned his head, seeking shelter in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock bent his head to accommodate him. He was now almost completely curled around Stanley, shielding him, providing what solace he could until the ambulance arrived. “Glad… you’re here.”

Sherlock pressed his lips to Stanley’s cheek, and then his nose and closed eyelids, feeling the heated flesh against his lips and taking comfort in the fact that it meant that Stanley was _still here_.

“You’re going to be all right,” Sherlock whispered. It seemed he couldn’t stop saying it, repeating it over and over like a mantra; an invocation; a prayer. “You’re going to be fine, Stanley, because there’s so much… so much left. So many years. You still have work to do, and so do I. And there’s so much about you I don’t know yet, so many things…”

He trailed off. Stanley had curled a hand around his upper arm, and he squeezed lightly.

“And there are the bees.” Sherlock ducked his head further so that he was whispering in Stanley’s ear. Stanley’s face was pressed into his neck, and he let out a quiet whimper. “There are the bees, and the country, and you must be there for that.”

Stanley’s response was murmured against the side of Sherlock’s throat, but it was drowned out by the sound of screeching tyres just on the other side of the door. 

Then there came the sound of pounding footsteps, and someone was calling their names.


	22. Chapter 22

Stanley was taken from Sherlock’s arms and whisked off to the ambulance, almost before Sherlock had a chance to rise to his feet. An officer Sherlock had met only once before wrapped a blanket around his shoulders--“I’m not in _shock”_ \--and steered him into the back of a police car. He was too numb to protest, and somewhere along the way to the Yard, he learned that Margaret Hayes had been saved, and that the killer had been taken into custody alive.

Sherlock gave his statement to a young sergeant he didn’t recognise, and whose name he couldn’t recall after the interview concluded. He was still in his bloodied t-shirt and grimy jeans, and when he inquired about a ride to the hospital, Anderson took him to Baker Street instead.

It took fully half an hour for Sherlock to get rid of the blood. Every time he thought he had sufficiently washed it off, he discovered a new patch hidden behind a lock of hair or stubbornly clinging to the skin just under his fingernails. He showered twice before he felt remotely like himself again, and even then his skin tingled, prickling with the phantom sensation of flowing blood. Stanley’s rattling breaths echoed in his ears, and his sweat  still filled Sherlock’s nostrils.

He was in surgery, and would be for some hours yet. Sherlock had left strict instructions to be contacted the moment the operation ended and, because he didn’t trust anyone to follow his orders, had called upon his brother for additional assurances. Mycroft would tell him the moment Stanley’s condition changed, and probably with more details than the doctors themselves would provide.

It wasn’t enough, though, to quell Sherlock’s restless mind, and it did little to dispense with the ache that sat deep in his chest.

He was halfway to the hospital when he received a text from Mycroft-- _He’s in recovery_ \--and by the time he found the correct ward, Stanley had already been moved into his room.

“They’re not allowing any visitors yet,” Donovan said when she noticed Sherlock approaching. She was already waiting in the corridor outside Stanley’s room. There was a cut above her eye, and the skin was being held together with a butterfly bandage.

“What was his name, Sally?”

She hesitated for a moment, which he found absurd.

“Thomas Boone,” she said finally. “You were right. He’s the wrong side of fifty with the beginnings of arthritis. He was getting _old_ – too old for these killings, at least.”

“I hope he looks worse,” Sherlock said around a dry throat. Judging by Donovan’s split knuckles and loose shoulders, Boone had suffered much more than she did, and she wasn’t sorry for it one bit. She snorted.

“The suspect suffered several unintentional and yet _unavoidable_ injuries while being taken into custody. He struggled a bit, you see.”

“What did you break?”

Donovan gave a faint smirk.

“His wrist. Smith got his nose. What are you doing here, by the way?”  Her words weren’t scathing, but genuinely curious. “I thought you’d be at the Yard, interrogating our suspect.”

“Is there any doubt that he did this?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head. “Then I don’t quite see the point.”

“I just thought you might like to know why he did this. It’d be good for future reference, I’d think.” Donovan swallowed. “It’s not like you to not see a case through to the very end. You always like to try to understand them, yeah? The killers.”

Sherlock nodded absently.

“If I may be perfectly honest with you, Sally,” he said dully, “I’m afraid that if I ever come to be in the same room as Boone, I will kill him with my bare hands. It’s probably best for all concerned if that does not come to pass.”

Before Donovan could reply, the door to Stanley’s room opened, and his doctors filed out.

Donovan stayed long enough to ensure that Stanley was in no immediate danger, but hospitals had always made her uneasy, and seeing her normally strong and resilient boss so grievously injured was unnerving for her. Stanley was unconscious still, and Donovan finally made Sherlock promise to keep her updated before taking her leave of them.

Sherlock stood by the window for a time, watching as the brilliant summer sky was overtaken by fat, white clouds that climbed and towered and eventually spread out until not a scrap of blue could be seen. They darkened and grew heavy, and soon were spitting rain. Sherlock watched the mist for a while, until it thickened into a true rainstorm and the water streaming down the window distorted the view so that there was nothing left to look at.

He turned his back to the window, and his gaze was drawn to Stanley’s still form.

Once, about six years ago, Stanley had been struck down by a severe bout of pneumonia. Sherlock remembered the coughing, the fevers, the struggle to breathe... but the most vivid memory he had of that horrible illness was the yellow tinge that Stanley’s skin took on, and the sickly-sweet scent of him.

Stanley’s skin was that colour again tonight, and even the antiseptic smell of the hospital room couldn’t override the sweat-tinged, sweet smell of someone who was distinctly unwell. Stanley’s hair was plastered to his forehead as his body overheated in the wake of the anesthesia, and an oxygen line to his nose aided his breathing. But his injuries had been treated, and though he would be uncomfortable for some time, he was going to live.

He was going to _live_.

\----

Mycroft was in contact with him almost as soon as Sherlock had settled into the chair by Stanley’s bed, bracing himself for the long wait ahead.

“What I want to know, brother _dear_ ,” Sherlock said quietly into the phone, venom dripping from his words, “is how Stanley disappeared out from under the noses of that security team.”

“A question I am investigating most thoroughly,” Mycroft said. “You have my word.”

“I had your word that he was safe,” Sherlock snapped. “Look where that got him.”

Mycroft was quiet for a long while. 

“I have done my best to do right by you over the years,” he said at last. “I haven’t always been successful, but it’s not due to maliciousness or a desire to see you hurt.”

Sherlock brushed his fingers over the back of Stanley’s cold hand. He felt an unexpected stab of guilt.

“What hope do I have of keeping him safe if even you can’t do it?” he asked quietly. “I should have been there, Mycroft.”

“It’s thanks to you they found the victim in time,” Mycroft pointed out. “Had you been with Inspector Hopkins, he would have been abducted, you would likely have been knocked unconscious or worse, and the victim would have died. As would have Hopkins, come to think of it. It’s unlikely anyone would have found him before the heat was too much to bear.”

Sherlock took Stanley’s limp hand in his own; there was no reaction. Not that he had expected there to be one.

Still, it would have been a pleasant surprise. And he could do with something pleasant right about now.

“That dog,” he said finally, “the one in your study. Where is he now?”

“The one you rescued, you mean?” Mycroft sounded faintly amused now. “He’s living in my home with the others. They all get on quite well.”

“Stanley’s allergic,” Sherlock said. 

“They’ll be rolling out a new allergy shot next month, courtesy of my Baskerville scientists. Stanley will need to have it administered once every ten years; he’ll never have an issue around animals again.”

Sherlock swallowed past a dry throat. 

“There isn’t room in Baker Street,” he tried.

“You’ll make the room,” Mycroft said. “You always do, for the important things. Besides, Baker Street isn’t your only home.”

“Stanley will be selling his house.”

“That’s not what I was referring to.”

“Sussex,” Sherlock agreed. It was an idea that had been crossing his mind quite often of late, and it was proving difficult to shake. “I don’t suppose –”

“No. I don’t think Victor would mind at all.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Sherlock, I’ve got a meeting –”

“Does he have a name?”

Mycroft paused. “My housekeeper has been calling him Rex, I believe. Her lack of imagination sometimes is astounding.”

“Rex.” Sherlock turned the name over in his mind; then he gave a tentative smile. “Oh, that’s Stanley all over.”

“Shall I transfer him to your care?”

This time, Sherlock didn’t even need to think about it.

“Yes,” he said, his hand tightening reflexively on Stanley’s. “Yes, do. But not until Stanley comes home.”

\----

It was still raining four hours later, when Stanley woke up.

“What are you doing here?” he murmured when he noticed Sherlock standing by the window, looking out onto the wet pavement below. Sherlock turned.

“Yes, why am I visiting my fiancé while he’s in the hospital?” he asked dryly. “How ridiculous of me. Do you feel all right?” 

Stanley adjusted his bed so that he was in a sitting position, and winced.

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

“I sincerely doubt it,” he said dryly, and Stanley gave a hoarse laugh.

“Yeah, I know, I was just trying to make you feel better.” And before Sherlock had time to fully process that, he asked, “How’s Margaret?”

“Fi - well. Uninjured, for the most part.”

“But scared shitless, no doubt,” Stanley finished for him. “Did he -?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“No. He never got the chance,” he said, and Stanley breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well, thank God for that, at least.”

Sherlock filled Stanley in on the rest of the details, starting with Donovan’s initial call to him and ending with their conversation out in the hall.

“Thank God for you,” Stanley murmured. “You saw through all of that. It’s because of you Margaret’s still alive.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“No,” he said softly, “don’t thank me. I was only thinking of you.”

Stanley blinked at him, for once at a loss for words.

“Your leg will heal completely, given enough time,” Sherlock said after a moment. He came and sat down in the chair by Stanley’s bed. “As will your other injuries."

His hand tightened reflexively into a fist, for in the time before he had found Stanley, Boone had managed to inflict a number of injuries--including a blow to the head that had required sutures to close, and the wound in his side that had caused him to lose so much blood. The bullet wounds would cause Stanley the most trouble, though, as he had suffered nerve and muscle damage as a result. The leg was going to take the longest to heal _._

“Good to hear,” Stanley whispered. His eyelids were becoming heavy; Sherlock could see that sleep was going to be pulling him under again soon. “They’re going to kick you out.”

Sherlock grinned. “Let them try.”

Stanley snorted.

“S’all right,” he murmured. “Go home. You need the rest.”

“No,” Sherlock said. He brushed a strand of hair out of Stanley’ eyes. “You have a tendency to get yourself ambushed, kidnapped, or shot whenever I’m not paying attention. I’m not going anywhere this time.”

“Is that a promise?” Stanley murmured.

Sherlock bent down and pressed his lips to Stanley’ sweat-damp forehead.

“It’s a fact.”

\----

The grass was still wet from the morning’s rain, but Sherlock paid it no mind.

He knelt before Victor’s grave, the water soaking through his trousers, and rested a palm on the stone.

“It’s over,” he said finally. “It’s over, Vic. The case, I mean. It’s been solved. And Stanley – he almost died, but he’s all right now. He’ll be coming home soon from the hospital. I just slipped out for a bit; he’s sleeping.”

He swallowed hard. A few stray droplets of rain fell onto his face, streaking down his cheeks like tears. He brushed them away.

“I just thought you should know that, when he comes home,” Sherlock continued, “I might – I might ask him about the bees.”

Sherlock paused again, as though expecting a tremendous outburst. But the breeze stilled, and even the rain seemed to pause.

“I was wrong, before,” he said at last. “I thought at first that Stanley might simply serve as a companion, because I couldn’t have you. I never thought I could care about someone as fiercely as I did you. I was wrong. He’s _not_ you, but he's just as important. He’s not just a companion, he’s… everything.”

Sherlock broke off.

“The bees were _our_ plan, I know,” he said. “And had you lived, I would be living there with you now. But he’s here now, and you’re not, and I think – I think I’ll ask him about them.”

He rubbed his knuckles over Victor’s name.

“I never loved anyone the way I did you,” he whispered. “But I plan to spend the rest of my life with him. I care for him, and I’m trying to do it well. I just thought you should know.”

This wasn’t goodbye, Sherlock told himself as he traced Victor’s name again. It _wasn’t_ goodbye. It was no more of an ending than the one they had had at Christmas fifteen years ago.

But it felt so _final_.

“Thank you, old friend,” he said at last. “For everything.”

\----

Stanley came home from the hospital at the end of the week.

Sherlock stayed to help him through the first few nights. He slept on the sofa in the main room for exactly one hour, before a text from Stanley at midnight told him to _Get your skinny arse in here right now_.

“Bloody ridiculous, you staying out there,” Stanley grumbled as Sherlock slid into bed next to him.

“My intention was to give you space.”

“Your intention can go fuck itself.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Go to sleep, Stanley.”

Neither of them slept much for the first few nights after Stanley returned home. His leg was healing well, and quickly, but he was still going to be experiencing pain for some time and it had a tendency to wake him in the middle of the night. Sherlock was always there with an extra dose of the medication, when it was allowed, or with a grounding touch when it wasn’t. Stanley hissed and cursed his way through the weekend and into the next week, his mood souring rapidly as the pain lingered and his mobility refused to increase as quickly as he wanted.

He was up and walking--well, hobbling, and only with the aid of his cane--by Monday afternoon. It was only then that Sherlock felt comfortable enough leaving him on his own for a few hours. It was excellent timing, too, because he received word from Donovan at the beginning of the week that they were bringing Boone back to the Yard from prison for another round of questioning.

“We’re going to be grilling him for some days yet,” she’d said in her phone call. “Twenty years’ worth of crimes is a lot of ground to cover. I know you said you don’t want anything to do with him, but in case you change your mind.... this is your last chance to talk to him.”

“What do you have so far?” Sherlock asked when he tracked Donovan down at the Yard that afternoon. They stood in a corridor near the room where Boone was being kept, speaking in low voices even though he couldn’t hear them.

Donovan snorted and shook her head.

“Everything you can think of,” she said darkly. “He’s not exactly denying anything. I suppose he doesn’t see the point of keeping it secret now that he won’t be able to get away with it anymore. Here.”

She held out her notes to him, and he flipped through them for several minutes. Dates, locations, and methods jumped out at him, as well as some of the more graphic details of the victims’ final hours, but that wasn’t what he was looking for.

“It’s not here,” he muttered.

“What isn’t?”

Sherlock handed the file back to Donovan.

“Give me some time with him. Twenty minutes. Alone.”

She hesitated.

“I don’t need another body to deal with, Holmes,” she said warningly. And then she added, quietly, “And the Inspector doesn’t need any blood on his hands. Don’t you dare do that to him.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I just need a name.”

\----

Stanley was asleep in the main room when Sherlock returned to his house that evening. His cane was propped up against the armchair, his damaged leg resting on a low table. He roused slowly when Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder, and it took some minutes of coaxing for him to wake fully. Sherlock fetched him water and his pain medication, and perched on the table while Stanley gathered his wits about him.

“I went to the Yard today,” he said at length.

“Wondered where you’d got off to,” Stanley murmured. “Everyone all right?”

“They’re fine. Stanley -” Sherlock broke off. Stanley’s gaze turned from curious to alarmed, and he started to lean forward. Sherlock put a hand on his leg to stop him. “They’re questioning Boone. I went to see if I could be of some assistance.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

“And?” Stanley prompted.

“I spoke with Boone for a time. He was able to shed some light on the one thing we could never figure out. The third victim’s name was Jane Smith,” Sherlock said softly. Stanley went very still, and what colour there was left in his cheeks quickly fled. He looked away. “She was twenty-two when she died. She had no family, no friends, and no home when she was abducted. There was no one to miss her then, and no one to remember her now. I thought you might like to know. I - am sorry.”

“Jane,” Stanley repeated quietly.

“Yes.”

“I see.” A tremor rippled through Stanley’s hand, and he clenched it into a fist. When he brought his gaze back to Sherlock’s face, his eyes were red-rimmed. “I’ll - uh - Well. It looks like I’ll have to get her a new headstone. Jane.”

Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, the moment Stanley’s face started to crumple, and he wrapped him in a tight embrace. He became aware too late that the gesture must have jostled Stanley’s injuries and tried to pull back, but then Stanley was clutching back just as fiercely, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s back. He buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder and drew ragged, uneven breaths.

“It’s over,” Sherlock whispered. “It’s all over.”

The armchair wasn’t made for two but Sherlock made it work anyway, settling down so that he was half on Stanley’s lap and half on the arm, never once letting go. And then Stanley finally sagged, allowing Sherlock to bear his weight for once, and wept.

\----

By the end of the week, Sherlock needed to return to Baker Street.

Stanley insisted on coming with him, and Sherlock wasn’t exactly willing to put up much of a protest.

“There will be stairs,” he pointed out, which was as close as he was able to come to one. Stanley gave him a withering look.

“God, Sherlock, if I let some stairs stop me, I’d never leave this bloody house. Besides,” he flashed Sherlock a smirk, “that’s what you’re for, isn’t it? Or are you afraid you won’t be able to give me a hand, old man?”

Someday, that light taunt wasn’t going to work on him anymore. This wasn’t that day.

The seventeen steps in Baker Street were still a struggle for Stanley, even with Sherlock’s aid, and though he had been trying to wean himself off the painkillers for the better part of the week, he gave in and needed to take some once they made it inside 221B.

“Right, I’m never doing that again,” Stanley huffed, settling in the overstuffed armchair before the cold fireplace. “You’re stuck with me, ‘cause I’m not leaving this place.”

“The horror,” Sherlock said dryly, bending for a kiss. 

Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon tending to the experiments he had abandoned in the wake of Stanley’s abduction--had it only been a week?--and then paid a visit to Alice. She insisted on following him back upstairs to see Stanley, and she fussed over him until dinnertime. Stanley tolerated the attention, mostly because he had a soft spot the size of London for Alice Hudson, but partly because it meant he got to have Checkers on his lap for a few hours.

“You’re going to have to get one of those, you know. A dog,” Alice told Sherlock in an undertone at one point when they were in the kitchen. Stanley and Checkers were engaged in a game of tug-of-war over an old sock. Checkers was too big for Stanley’s lap, really, but neither seemed to be complaining. 

Sherlock gave a smile. “I already have.”

Alice gave a tiny squeal and hugged him tightly around the neck.

Within a few days, Stanley was able to move about on his own without the cane. His movements were still slow and stunted, but his mood improved greatly once he was able to stop relying on Sherlock’s help.

Sherlock made a few trips to Stanley’s house in order to pick up some items for him. By the end of the next week, many of his clothes were hanging in Sherlock’s wardrobe and some of his books had migrated onto the bookshelves in the main room. His shoes sat by the door, his favourite mug was in the kitchen, and there were two permanent body-shaped impressions forming in Sherlock’s mattress.

There was just one thing missing before the home would be complete.

 

Sherlock made a clandestine call to Mycroft one morning while Stanley was visiting his physical therapist.

“I’ll send him along by car in an hour,” Mycroft said in response to Sherlock’s request, “along with all of his supplies. I’ll also have a note made in Stanley’s medical record that he’s to start receiving those allergy shots as soon as they become available to the public. In the meantime, I’ll send over two boxes of the trial version of the drug in pill form. He’ll have to take it daily, but it will suffice until he can get the shot.”

Stanley arrived home two hours later. Sherlock heard the cab pull up and the door downstairs open, but he didn’t dare go investigate. Stanley wanted to manage these simple tasks on his own, no matter how long they took him, and Sherlock wasn’t allowed to interfere. He took a laboriously long time to climb the stairs, and when he opened the door to the flat Sherlock could hear that he was out of breath. He was in good spirits, though, for having mastered the stairs, and that was all that mattered.

“Did you see Alice’s door?” he asked as he stepped into the flat. “She’s already got Christmas decorations up! And – oh, hello. Who’s this?”

Sherlock came out into the main room. Stanley had settled into an armchair, and it was only then that he noticed the dog sleeping on the sofa. 

“Go on,” Sherlock said to the animal, who was gazing at Stanley in wary curiosity. He snapped his fingers. “Come on, Rex, go say hi.”

“Rex?” Stanley asked. The dog jumped off the sofa and trotted over to Stanley’s chair. Stanley scratched him behind his ears, an instantaneous smile gracing his lips. Rex went up on his hind legs and planted his front paws on Stanley’s thighs, and he licked Stanley’s face enthusiastically. Stanley laughed. “Who do you belong to, eh?”

“You,” Sherlock said quietly, and Stanley twisted in his chair to look at him. 

“You got me a dog?” he asked blankly. Sherlock came over and perched on the arm of the chair, offering Rex a quick pat on the head. 

“Not exactly,” he said, and he briefly told Stanley how he had become acquainted with the dog. “He was living with Mycroft, but I rather thought I knew someone who would enjoy his company more.”

“I would,” Stanley admitted. His voice sounded thicker than normal. “I do. But Sherlock –”

“You’re allergic; I know.” Sherlock ran his fingers through Stanley’s hair and then placed a kiss on top of his head. “That’s not an issue. Not anymore.”

He explained about the new medication. By the end of it, Stanley was shaking his head.

“This is unbelievable,” he said quietly. “Your brother is astounding, Sherlock.”

“He has his moments,” Sherlock conceded. Stanley craned his neck and gave Sherlock a kiss.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he whispered when they broke apart. 

“So don’t,” Sherlock said gently. Rex gave a tentative bark, drawing their attention back to him, and Stanley laughed. “Walk, do you think?”

“Yes, I think so.” Stanley swung himself to his feet while Sherlock fetched a leash. He held out a hand for Rex to sniff, and then lick. “C’mon, boy. Want to go for a walk?”

Rex barked louder this time, Stanley laughed again, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile as well.

He could get used to this.

\----

They passed a quiet Sunday morning out on the balcony that looked down onto Baker Street. 

It was a temperate morning, but every breeze carried with it the warning of a scorching afternoon ahead. Every time the clouds shifted and parted, a warm sun shone down on them. Sometimes it lingered too long, and Sherlock could feel sweat starting to bead between his shoulder blades.

The flat was going to be stifling tonight.

Stanley, sitting in the chair next to him, had his eyes closed and his face turned to the sky. He had been reading the morning’s paper, but now that sat abandoned at his feet. Rex was lying in the far corner, his nose poking through the small gap between the bars of the railing so that he could watch the activity on the street below. Sherlock pecked away on his laptop, updating his website. They hadn’t spoken in close to an hour, and the silence had grown comfortable.

The shrill ring of a phone filtered through the open door, and Stanley sighed, stiffly pushing himself to his feet.

“That’s mine,” he muttered unnecessarily. “Back in a moment.”

He was inside for nearly a quarter of an hour. Rex padded over to Sherlock’s chair and laid his head on Sherlock’s thigh. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock scolded lightly. He scratched behind one of Rex’s ears. “He’ll be back out soon.”

He couldn’t make out the conversation, but given the length of the phone call he surmised it was either the Yard or Stanley’s parents. He was surprised, actually, that Ruth hadn’t been out to check up on Stanley since he came home. Both of Stanley’s parents had come to the hospital to visit him immediately after his rescue, but they had left before his release. They spoke to Stanley nearly every day, but seemed to trust that Sherlock would alert them should anything go wrong.

“That was Donovan,” Stanley said when he limped back out onto the balcony several minutes later.

“And?” Sherlock muttered around a cigarette he was struggling to light. He had abandoned his laptop and was now standing by the railing, looking down onto the traffic below. Rex was resting at his feet.

His lighter sparked and died; Stanley finally pulled the one from his pocket and offered it. Sherlock inclined his head and cupped his hands around the cigarette. Stanley lit it for him, the flame flaring to life in the shelter of Sherlock’s hands. He felt the heat lick his palms.

“The case is officially closed. They’ve named Thomas Boone as the true murderer, and Anthony Dawlins as his accomplice. They will be exonerating everyone else who might have been wrongly convicted along the way.” Stanley rubbed the back of his neck absently. “They’ll be giving you a commendation--I told them you wouldn’t accept it--and, well... my medical leave is up next week.”

Sherlock glanced at him, watching as the corners of his mouth tightened.

“You’ll be able to return to fieldwork within a few weeks,” he said quietly. “Especially if your leg continues to heal as it is. That’s only a month behind the desk, at the most.”

Stanley gave a jerky, uncertain nod.

“I know.”

Sherlock frowned.

“What is it?”

Stanley glanced at him and shook his head.

“It’s nothing. Got another one of those?”

Sherlock fished into his pockets for another cigarette and handed it over. Stanley lit it, and they smoked in silence for some moments.

“I’m not sure I want to return to the job,” Stanley said abruptly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. This was new.

“That job is your life.”

“I do love the job,” Stanley said. “But I don’t think it’s been my life for a very long time.”

Stanley’s eyes were a clear grey this morning, almost a light blue, and his gaze was steady even in the long silence that followed his words.

“Stanley, I’ve a house in the South Downs,” Sherlock said abruptly after a moment’s contemplation. “It’s small. There aren’t any stairs to climb. You would be a good deal more comfortable there, given the nature of your injury and the length of your recuperation.”

Stanley was quiet for a long while, confusion overriding bemusement in his face.

“Leave the city?” he asked after a moment, slight incredulity in his tone. “Leave London? Sherlock, I appreciate the offer, but I know very well that the last thing you want to do is leave this city.”

Sherlock gave a huff of laughter and shook his head. He slid an arm around Stanley’s waist.

“Stanley, what makes you think I stayed in this city for any reason other than the fact that you were here? London is my home, yes, but it isn’t my life. Even the work hasn’t been my life for a very long time. I don’t love -”

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then he said the words that he had never been able to say to Victor, but which he could say now _because_ of Victor: “I don’t love it the way I love _you._ ”

They were so close that Sherlock felt Stanley stop breathing for several seconds.

“Come with me,” Sherlock pressed, his arms tightening around Stanley’s waist. “I want to move to the country, and I want to keep bees, and I want to do it all with you at my side. Will you come?”

Stanley drew a shuddering breath.

“Wherever,” he said quietly, “and whenever you like. Yes. I’ll come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final line is a paraphrase of a line of dialogue from ACD's "The Adventure of the Empty House."


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks in the world must be given to Canon, who helped me whip this story into shape. It kind of took on a life of its own as I started posting it, but I never would have made it even that far without her efforts. Thanks also to everyone who stuck with all these characters to the end; it means a lot. Writing the stories in this series has been such a wonderful experience, and I enjoyed it so much. Your feedback and support along the way was most appreciated.

The skies over London were white and unremarkable that morning.

The world was a mix of brown and grey, and the frost-coated ground crunched underfoot. Snow had yet to make more than a brief appearance this winter, and the city suffered in its absence. Trees shed their leaves, leaving gnarled branches behind, and grass withered to reveal brown soil, as happened every autumn. But then the seasonal blanket of white had failed to appear, which left these flaws exposed to the world.

Even the usual sting of winter was absent this December morning, and Sherlock was able to forego his Belstaff coat. He arrived at the cemetery early in the morning, much earlier than its keepers, and scaled the gate to get inside.

Victor’s grave was largely unchanged, even after these sixteen years. It showed not even the slightest sign of weathering, and Sherlock had to smile at that.

“Constant Victor,” he murmured, tracing the letters of Victor’s name. “Steady Victor. As ever, my anchor. How are you, old friend?”

He was careful to crouch before the grave, not kneel, mindful as he was of his tailored suit. His shoes, polished just the night before, had acquired scuff marks in his scaling of the fence. He could not bring himself to mind all that much, but he was careful not to do further damage.

“It’s been a long winter, hasn’t it,” he said softly. “But not a hard one. Not this time. And soon it will be spring.”

The grass around the grave had become overgrown in the months since Sherlock had last visited, and he started to absent-mindedly brush it away from the edges of the headstone.

“I know you –” Sherlock started, but then he stopped abruptly. His fingers had come into contact with an anomaly on the headstone, something round and bulbous where there should only have been smooth marble, and he pressed back the dead grass.

Three perfect stones lay on Victor’s grave. They were smooth and polished, and they had been arranged in a neat row above his name. Sherlock picked one up and turned it over in his fingers, and his breath caught in his throat as his heart clenched in a fist.

“Oh,” he breathed. 

_ Stones cannot die _ .

There were things in this world he could never do, and acts of kindness that would forever be beyond his capabilities.

But that was all right, because now he had Stanley. Stanley’s love was boundless where Sherlock’s was limited and imperfect. He was at once an anchor and a buoy, and Sherlock knew he would be lost without him.

Just as he had been lost once before.

“I love you,” he whispered to Victor. “I’ll always love you. You were—are—the greatest part of my life. But so is he. And I’ll try to be good to him, the way – the way you were good to me.”

He pressed his fingertips to his lips and then skimmed them over Victor’s name one last time before getting to his feet.

Dawn was breaking.

\--------

They didn’t have a party.

Sherlock had conceded to everything else up until that point, and Stanley knew which battles were lost from the start. Sherlock hated crowds, and Stanley was likely to be shattered by the time twilight settled in anyway.

They had a small gathering back at Baker Street instead later that afternoon. John and Lestrade were there, of course, as were Alice and Molly. Stanley’s parents attended as well, and Donovan and Anderson showed up after their shifts, and at some point the rest of Stanley’s former team trickled in. Sherlock caught sight of Dimmock early in the evening, and he ran into Gregson in the kitchen a little while after that. Mycroft made an appearance later on with Anthea on his arm, and Sherlock had to admit by then that it was rather starting to feel like a party after all.

“You holding up all right, old man?” Stanley asked in an undertone during one of the brief moments they ran into one another whilst circulating the room.

“Always,” Sherlock said. The kiss he gave was automatic, and would have gone unnoticed at any other occasion. But the crowd was particularly aware of them tonight, and at once the room erupted into applause. Sherlock fought back a groan and Stanley flushed, and it was all-too-apparent that they weren’t exactly cut out for this.

“Few more hours,” Stanley said bracingly in the moments before they were separated again by the press of people. Sherlock gripped his hand and offered him a private smile before they parted, and no one—thankfully—saw it pass between them.

But _a few more hours_ turned into five, and when Sherlock next became aware of the time it was one in the morning. There were only a few people left in the flat, and Stanley had them in deep conversation over by the fireplace. None of them noticed when Sherlock grabbed a packet of cigarettes and stole up to the rooftop for a smoke.

The air was sharper at midnight than it had been at dawn, and Sherlock lamented for a moment having left his coat downstairs. But his suit jacket was adequate for now, and when he looked up, he found that he couldn’t really be bothered to care much about the cold.

The stars were particularly bright tonight, sharpened by the brisk winter air, and the sight of them struck him momentarily breathless. He tilted his head so that he faced the sky completely, with no horizon or silhouette of a building in his periphery, and all he could see were stars and utter darkness. It was overwhelming and dizzying, and he stared for so long that his cigarette burned all the way to the end without him having taken a single draw on it.

_ Sometimes all that matters is that we perceive it to be real _ .

A minute or an hour later, the door to the roof creaked open again. Sherlock didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“I was wondering where you’d got to.” Stanley said, a warm smile in his voice. “John and Greg are just leaving. Come say goodbye.”

Sherlock finally brought his gaze back down to Earth, and to Stanley. “They can wait.”

Stanley gave him an exasperated look. “Sherlock...”

“They can _wait_ ,” Sherlock repeated quietly. “Come here.”

Stanley hesitated, and then shook his head. “I should really get back downstairs. We’ve got to see John and Greg off, and there’s all that food we need to clean up, and -”

“Come here,” Sherlock said again. He held out his hand and added, softly, “We got _married_ today, and I haven’t had a moment alone with you yet.”

Stanley paused, and then he gave a disbelieving huff of laughter.

“God, you’re absolutely right.” He stepped out onto the roof and shut the door behind him. “Have you been up here long? I didn’t notice you leave.”

Sherlock smirked as Stanley approached. “Of course you didn’t. No, not long. Perhaps an hour.”

Stanley took his hand. Sherlock laced their fingers together and pulled him close enough to kiss. Stanley tasted of cinnamon and champagne, and Sherlock felt his lips curve into a smile.

“Been wanting to do that for a while, old man?” Stanley asked when they parted. Sherlock brushed a strand of hair from Stanley’s forehead.

“All night,” he admitted. Their hands remained linked, and Sherlock felt the unusual pressure of Stanley’s ring pressed between his fingers. The ring on his own left hand was an unfamiliar weight, and he found that he kept brushing his thumb across it absently.

Stanley looked up at the sky.

“So what’s up there?” he asked. Sherlock squeezed his hand.

“So many things,” he answered. He pointed to the southeast, at the distinctive three stars that sat in a row, and said, “Orion. If you follow Orion’s Belt to the left, you’ll see Sirius – it’s the brightest star in the sky. Sirius makes up the head of Canis Major, and directly above Canis Major is Canis Minor. They’re his hunting dogs.”

“And just above that is… Gemini?”

Sherlock looked to where Stanley was pointing and nodded. “And just beyond that is Jupiter.”

Stanley dropped his hand, though he kept staring at the sky. “They look different here.”

Sherlock suppressed a smile. They had gone to the country not long after Stanley’s release from the hospital, once he was well enough to move about on his own and not in constant pain anymore. The retreat to the Sussex Downs cottage had revitalized him in ways Sherlock hadn’t even considered were possible, and in a week Stanley had morphed from a haggard detective to the man Sherlock had last seen a year ago, before the weight of this case chased him away. Stanley had put on five pounds in that week and started to regain some of his colour and most of his dry wit. They returned to London for a time, but both men had come to an unspoken understanding that it wouldn’t be for long.

The stars were brighter in the South Downs.

And so Stanley put in his notice at the Yard in early September and Sherlock started to pack up both their homes, shipping the essentials to the cottage and leaving the rest to be dealt with later. And that was how the following months went. They spent a few weeks at the cottage and then one or two in London, wrapping up affairs or, in Stanley’s case, visiting friends. They planned the ceremony along the way, and in October had traveled to Weymouth together for what was ostensibly an overdue visit with John and Lestrade—and also an important part of the ceremony planning.

“They did well today." 

“To be fair, there wasn’t much for them to actually _do,”_ Sherlock pointed out.

Stanley snorted.

“John had his hands full with you, trying to keep you from climbing the walls. I don’t think he got off lightly.” He sobered. “I’m glad we asked them.”

Sherlock nodded. John had been his best man while Lestrade stood up for Stanley, and Sherlock honestly wasn’t sure how he’d have got through the day without them.

“You were shaking,” Stanley went on quietly. “I could feel it. No, don’t look like that, no one else would have noticed. But I did.”

“I was terrified,” Sherlock admitted. He gave a quiet huff. “I don’t know why. It was absurd. What could I possibly have been afraid of?”

Stanley ran his fingers over the new ring on Sherlock’s finger.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “But if it helps, I felt the same. I thought I was going to pass out.”

They stared at one another for a beat, and then they both broke into laughter. Sherlock gave Stanley’s hand a gentle tug, and he led him over to the ledge that ran along the nearby brick wall, the one that enclosed the door to the roof on all four sides, making it appear as though there was a tiny building on top of the roof. The ledge made an adequate bench, and they both settled on it.

“Where did you get the ring?” Stanley asked after a time. He twisted it absently on his hand. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was my father’s,” Sherlock said after a moment spent contemplating whether or not he should admit this. Stanley swallowed.

“Thank you,” he said thickly, and Sherlock kissed his temple.

“You visited his grave.”

In the silence that followed, he was aware of the traffic on the streets below and an aeroplane that passed overhead. No conversation drifted up from the flat downstairs; everyone else must have left for the evening. John and Lestrade would understand. He’d call them in the morning.

“I did,” Stanley said finally. He slid his arm under Sherlock’s and rested his hand on Sherlock’s knee. The ring on his finger glinted in the light from a neighboring building. “We had a chat.”

“What about?”

“Now, that’s between me and Victor, don’t you think?”

Sherlock covered Stanley’s hand with his own. He attempted a light tone. “I just want to make sure you’re only telling him good things, is all.”

“Oh, of course.” Stanley laced their fingers together. “I told him about how you hardly ever leave experiments lying out around the flat anymore, and that you don’t even scare small children away when you question them for a case.”

“A ringing endorsement.”

Stanley snorted. A brief silence fell between them.

“I also told him that you’re the best man I know,” Stanley said quietly. “And that you’re not always kind, but you _are_ good. I told him that everything you are is thanks to him, and that I’m grateful for it. And that I would’ve liked to have known him.”

“Not everything,” Sherlock croaked when he could find his voice again. “What I am... is thanks to _you_ , too.”

They sat like that for an hour longer, watching the moon advance across the sky. In the morning, they would begin the final stages of their move to the South Downs. They would finish emptying out the flat and the house and sell them both. Soon there would hives to maintain and bees to care for, and Rex would have entire fields to play in.

But all of that was for another day.

“You’re going to miss this,” Stanley murmured. He was half-asleep already.

“Not as much as you think,” Sherlock said. They were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, and Stanley was a warm, solid weight against him. “There’s not much to miss about a city that doesn’t have you in it.”

“Is this what I’ve signed up for, then?” Stanley asked dryly. “You being the biggest sap in existence for the rest of my life?”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh?” Stanley attempted to sound deeply offended. “And why’s that, then?”

“Because you’re my husband.” Sherlock laughed suddenly, surprised at how the word felt on his lips, and how wonderful it sounded when said out loud. “And I don’t think I’m going to get tired of saying that for a very long time.”

Stanley smiled then, and though Sherlock wouldn’t swear by it, it appeared as though Stanley’s eyes were brighter than normal.

“‘Bout bloody time, too,” he said gruffly. “ _Husband_. Gonna have to get used to that one.”

“Looking forward to it?”

This time, Stanley’s smile was brilliant.

“I can’t wait.”


End file.
